Thrilling Wonder Stories v29n01 1946 Fall

A THflliilNG
PUBKfATION

t n ■ CALL

HIM DEMON

>7 fantastic Natse/et
I Wif KEITH HAMMOND

AitJIrnaz/m/ Campfefe Novef By JOHN RUSSELL FEARN

O F course, you are. You’ve seen that lack of a high school
education— or its equivalent— is a terrific handicap in trav-
eling the road to success. In many organizations, such edu-
cation is required for almost any peacetime position.

By recognizing this fact, you’ve taken a step forward.
Now, act upon that realization— and you can make giant
strides toward your goal in life.

If you are one of the thousands who left high school to
engage in war work — your time to make up lost education
is now. You can do this at any time but the longer you
delay the more difficult it becomes.

By all means, return to high school if your circum-
stances permit. If that isn’t possible, act today to obtain
the equivalent of a high school education the I. C. S. way.

I. C. S. is specially organized to serve those unable to
attend residential schools. You study at home or on the job
. . . learn while you earn . . . acquire a high school education
in a surprisingly short time. I. C. S. educational standards
are high. Costs of I. C. S. Courses are astonishingly low.
Mail the coupon today for complete information.

INTERNATIONAL CORRESPONDENCE SCHOOLS

BOX 3967-G, SCRANTON 9, PENNA.

Without cost or obligation, please send me full particulars about the course before which

□ HIGH SCHOOL
Business and
Academic Courses

□ Accounting □ Advertising

□ Arithmetic □ Bookkeeping

□ Business Correspondence
O Business Management

□ Certified Public Accounting

□ Commercial

O Cost Accounting

□ Federal Tax

□ First Year College

□ Foremanship □ French

□ Good English

□ Higher Mathematics

□ Illustrating □ Motor Traffic

□ Postal Service

□ Salesmanship □ Secretarial

□ Sign Lettering

O Spanish □ Stenography
. O Traffic Management
Air Conditioning and
Plumbing Courses
D Air Conditioning
O Heating □ Plumbing

N ame

GUv-

□ Refrigeration □ Steam Fitting □ Radio Operating

Chemistry Courses □ Radio Servicing

□ Chemical Engineering □ Telegraph Engineering

□ Chemistry, Analytical m Electrical Courses

□ Chemistry, Industrial g Electrical Drafting

□ Chemistry. Mfg. Iron & Steel □ Electrical Engineering

□ Petroleum Refining □ Plastics g wer

□ Pulp and Paper Making
Civil Engineering, Architec-
tural and Mining Courses.

O Architectural Drafting

□ Architecture

□ Building Estimating

□ Lighting Technician

□ Practical Electrician

□ Power House Electric

□ Ship Electrician

Interna! Combustion
Engines Courses

□ Civil Engineering □ Coal Mining □ Auto Technician □ Aviation

□ Contracting and Building

□ Highway Engineering

□ Lumber Dealer

□ Reading Structural Blueprints

□ Sanitary Engineering

□ Structural Drafting

□ Structural Engineering

□ Surveying and Mapping
Communications Courses

O Electronics

□ Practical Telephony

□ Radio, General

-Age—

□ Diesel-Electric

□ Diesel Engines □ Gas Engines
Mechanical Courses

□ Aeronautical Engineering

□ Aircraft Drafting

□ Flight Engineer

O Forging □ Foundry Work

□ Heat Treatment of Metals

□ Industrial Engineering

□ Industrial Metallurgy

□ Machine Shop

□ Machine Shop, Inspection

Home

— Address

-Present Position-

I have marked X:

□ Mechanical Drafting

□ Mechanical Engineering

□ Mold-Loft Work

□ Patternmaking — Wood, Metal

□ Reading Shop Blueprints

□ Sheet-Metal Drafting

□ Sheet-Metal Worker

□ Ship Drafting □ Ship Fitting

□ Tool Designing □ Toolmakicg

□ Welding — Gas and Electric
Railroad Courses

□ Air Brake □ Car Inspector

□ Diesel Locomotive

□ Locomotive Engineer

□ Locomotive Fireman

□ Railroad Section Foreman
Steam Engineering Courses

□ Boilermaking

□ Combustion Engineering

□ Engine Running

□ Marine Engineering

□ Steam Electric □ Steam Engines
Textile Courses

□ Cotton Manufacturing

□ Rayon Weav’g □ Textile Deeig’nt

□ Woolen Manufacturing

Working Hours _

A.M. to P.M. Length of Service in World War II-

Canadian residents send coupon to International Correspondence Schools Canadian, Ltd., Montreal, Canada.
British residents send coupon to I. C. S., 71 King sway, London, W. C. 2, England.

VCKor INJURED!

AMAZING NEW

GOLD SEAL POLICY

PROVIDES THIS PROTECTION!

FOR JUST

wrw

CASH BENEFITS BIG
ENOUGH To Be WORTHWHILE!

SICKNESS BENEFITS!

Policy pays for loss of time due
to sickness, a. regular monthly
income for as long as 3
months, up to ........... .

ACCIDENT BENEFITS!

Policy pays, for accident dis-
ability at rate: up to $100 per
month, for -as long-as'24
months, or - . . . . . . . . .

ACCUMULATED CASH!

Policy pays for accidental loss
of life, limb or sight ; up to
$4,000, accumulated to., . V. .

m Mg SICKNESS, ACCIDENT
end MATERNITY

Policy pays ^hospitalization benefits’*
for sickness , accident or maternity, in*
eluding hospital room at rate of $5.00
per day, operating room, anaesthesia,
drugs, dressings, laboratory, X*ray, oxy-
gen tent and other services, even ambu •
fence service. Total hospital benefits as
Reified to over

fbe SERVICE LIFE INSURANCE CO.

CASH for Almost Every Emergency!

Now, added millions can afford all-around insurance protection. Here
is a combination SICKNESS, ACCIDENT & KOSPITALIZATIOI*
policy for just a dollar a month that pays in strict accordance with its
provisions for ANY and ALL accidents, ALL the common sicknesses*
even non-confining illness and minor injuries. It pays disability
benefits from the very first day. NO waiting period! NO this is not the
usual "limited” policy. It’s an extra-liberal policy that provides quick
cash to replace lost income, pay doctor and hospital bills, for medicines^
and other pressing demands for cash that invariably come wheat
sickness or accident strikes.

POLICY ISSUED By Mail AT BIG SAVINGSl

NO MEDICAL EXAMINATION!

Ages 15 to 69. Actual policy sent by mail for 10 Days
Free Examination. NO cost! NO obligation! NO

salesman will call! See this policy and judge for your-
jself. It’s the protection you need and should have at
a price you can afford. Just mail coupon below! But
do it today. Tomorrow might be too late!

,.B« INSPECTION c

to

773C

fsrvfce life

OMAHA 2, NEBRASKA

The SERVICE LIFE INSURANCE CO.

773C Service Life Bldg., Omaha 2, Nebraska
REND without cost or obligation your extra-liberal
‘•Cold Sea!" St-A-MONTH Policy for 10 Days’ Free
Inspection.

NAME

ADDRESS AGE

CITY STATE. ......

BENEFICIARY

mmimm

§rmtB§

Vol. XXIX, No. 1 A THRILLING PUBLICATION Fall, 1946

A Complete Novel

THE MULTILLIONTH CHANCE

By JOHN RUSSELL FEARN

Physicist Grant Mayson re-creates Iana, the wonder
girl of long ago, out of scattered atoms — but between
them stands the memory of Anrax, long-dead master
of science! 9

Two Complete Novelets

CALL HIM DEMON Keith Hammond 46

Deep in bis fourth dimensional lair crouches the hungry monster, while
only a band of children guards helpless adult victims !

POCKET UNIVERSES . . .Murray Leinster 70

When a Latin-American tyrant visits New York, Luis Santos perfects
a machine that can eliminate space — and exacts vengeance!

Short Stories

THE GOOD EGG Ross Rocklynne 37

Square Root, the little imp from space, does some fast figuring

NEVER THE TWAIN SHALL MEET Brett Sterling 60

John Farrel keeps his tryst with Ylleen, whose love means death

THE LITTLE THINGS Henry Kuttner 85

Dave Tenning, a born rebel, felt he did not belong in this Futureworld

TUBBY— MASTER OF THE ATOM Ray Cummings 92

An atomic beauty of a distant era gives Tubby the eye

Special Features

THE READER SPEAKS Sergeant Saturn 6

THE STORY BEHIND THE STORY. A Department 111

Cover Painting by Earle Bergey — Illustrating "Call Him Demon"

Published every other month by STANDARD MAGAZINES, INC., 10 East 40th Street, New York 16,
N. Y. N. L. Pines, President. Copyright, 1946, by Standard Magazines, Inc, Subscription (12 issues) $1.80.
single copies, 15c. Foreign and Canadian postage extra. Entered as second-class matter May 21, 1936, at the
Post Office at New York, N. Y., under the Act of March 3, 1879, Names of all characters used in stories
and semi-fiction articles are fictitious. If the name of any Living person or existing institution is used,
it is a coincidence. October, 1946, issue

PRINTED IN THE U. S. A.

Read Our Companion Science Fiction Magazine — STARTLING STORIES

in my course I show you how to

•arts to build Radio Circuits;

I I send you Soldering Equipment and
Radio Parts; show you how to do Radio
soldering; how to mount and connect
Radio parts; give you practical experience.

build this N.R.I. Tester with parts I send.
It soon helps you fix neighborhood Radios
and earn EXTRA money in spare time.

then teat them; see how they work; learn
how to design Bpeeial circuits: how to
locate and repair circuit defects.

Building this A. M. Signal Generator You build this Superheterodyne Receiver
gives you more valuable experience. It . which brings in local and distant sta-

profides amplitude-modulated, signals for tione— and gives you more experience to

You get parts to build this Vacuum Tube
Power Pack; make changes which give

J 'ou experience with packs of many kinds;
earn to correct power pack troubles.

I Will Show You Howto

f\ by Practicing

KNOW MADIO

I Will Trai n Yoa a t Home- SAMPI E IISSOH TREE

also find profitable opportunities in
Police, Aviation, Marine Radio, Broad-
casting, Radio Manufacturing, Public
Address work. Think of even greater
opportunities as Television, FM, and
Electronic devices become available to
the public 1 Send for FREE books now I

Find Out What NR! Can Do For You

Mail Coupon for Sample Lesson and

my FREE 64-page book. Read the de-
tails about my Course; letters from
men I trained; see how quickly, easily
you can get started. No obligation!
Just MAIL COUPON NOW in envelope
or paste on penny postal. J. E. SMITH,
President, Dept. 6J09, National Radio
Institute, Pioneer Home Study Radio
School 9 Washington 9, D. C.

a Maxi me free, your sample lesson and 64-
Z page book. (No salesman will call. Please

V write plainly.)

I

0 Name ........... M * ♦ *. . . .Age

J Address

| City .Zone. ..... State

Do you want a good-pay job in the
fast-growing Radio Industry — or your
own Radio Shop? Mail the Coupon for
a Sample Lesson and my 64-page book,
“Win Rich Rewards in Radio/* both
FREE. See how I will train you at
home — how you get practical Radio ex-
perience building, testing Radio circuits
with 6 BIG KITS OF PARTS I send *

Many Beginners Soon Make Extra
Money in Spare Time While Learning

The day you enroll I start sending
EXTRA MONEY JOB SHEETS that
show how to make EXTRA money fix-
ing neighbors’ Radios in spare time
while still learning ! It’s probably easier
to get started now than ever before,
because the Radio Repair Business is
booming. Trained Radio Technicians

My Course Includes Training in

TELEVISION • ELECTRONICS

A Department Conducted by SERGEANT SATURN

W ITH the increasing importance of
science fiction and pseudo-science
revealing itself more clearly every
day, it has been increasingly brought home
to the Sarge that by and large STF is no
longer largely a game for the blooming of
adolescent imaginations and humor.

God forbid that imagination or humor
should ever desert youth — or mature hu-
manity either. Without both, this world
would long since have ceased progressing —
if, in truth, it is progressing. Certainly the
Sarge would be lost without them as would
his ever-loving correspondents.

But after putting the old-style letter col-
umn to the test and receiving a vigorous re-
quest to change his manners or get out of
print, from a vast majority of fans and read-
ers, he has decided upon certain definite
alterations in his epistolary personality.

From now on, the following will be out-
lawed in this column and its companion piece
in STARTLING STORIES, “The Ether Vi-
brates” :

(1.) The Sarge is definitely on the wagon — at; least
as far as Xeno is concerned.

(2.) Frogeyes, Wart-ears and Snaggletooth are here-
by relegated to the outer regions of space from which
they stemmed.

(3.) Space lingo as such is no longer for us.

We reserve the right to make an occasional
bad pun if the situation seems to demand it,
and to burst into verse under obvious con-
ditions. But otherwise, we shall answer
queries, letters and insults as forthrightly as
possible. Since our readers show evidence
of wanting to grow up, it is the least we can
do.

But you readers must fulfill your part of
this new deal. By way of a horrible example
of what not to do any more, we are printing
the following letter from one Guerry Brown,
Box 1467, Delray Beach, Florida. If you want

to be printed, study this and do something —
almost anything else. Up to now we’d have
considered this letter okay — but the old order
changeth!

Dear Sarge: I was walking along a dark, lonely road,
the Spring, “46” issue of TWS (why I capitalize it, I
don’t know) under my bullet-proof vest, when a long,
dark limousine drew up alongside me,

“There he is!” a hoarse voice shouted. “That’s the
guy who bought the last issue of Thrilling Wonder
Stories at the news stand. Grab him!”

A horrible assortment of weird-looking robots
clanked out and seized me. They tied me up, one of
the robots sitting on my head while three others did
the tying. Then they picked me up and tossed me in
the car’s luggage compartment. Heh, heh, little did
they know that they were dealing with the great G.
C, Brown himself!!!

By the time they reached their destination. I had
worked loose my bonds, and as one of the robots
opened the compartment I picked up a handy monkey
wrench and bashed him in the head. His tubes and
batteries were short-circuited, and he vanished in s.
flash of purple flame. I destroyed three more robots
before they finally managed to tie me up again.

Then 1 was carried into a little weatherbeaten shack.
The robots, directed by a little hunch-backed man,
raised a trap door in the shack’s dusty floor, revealing
a long, rickety flight of stairs leading down into
nowhere. After being carried through many winding
passages, we Anally came to a' steel door. The hunched-
back man muttered some mysterious words, and the
door opened.

There, on a pedestal built of empty Xeno kegs sat
SERGEANT SATURN. Around him clustered his three
hideous attendants. Fresh kegs of Xeno kept rolling in
from the brewery. A long pipe ran to the top of the
pedestal. Under this the Sergeant sat, drinking the
Xeno as it was piped from the kegs. Around the sides
of the room were printing presses, evidently for print-
ing TWS and SS. Next to the presses was what looked
like a circular saw. I wondered for a moment what
it was, then the truth dawned upon me. It was the
machine for cutting the edges of the stf magazines.
Two robots dragged me before the Sarge. He demanded
that I give up my copy of TWS.

“Uh-unh,” I said.

“Okay, boys, let him have it,” the Sarge yelled.
Several robots grabbed me and threw me on a table,
and strapped me down.

"No, no!” I cried, but it did no good. They out open
my bullet-proof vest and yanked out the copy of TWS.
A lean, ugly man with a ciose-cropped, bullet-shaped
head and a long, wicked scar across his face came in,
and one of the robots handed him the mag.

“Ah, at last I have my masterpiece back!” he cried.

This, evidently, was the great Earle Bergy, himself.
Snaggletooth had dropped his last copy in the Xeno jug
(Continued on page 101)

6

PLAYS ON RADIO

"As a proud student I can't keert
from telling you that as a result!
of my course I have a good posi-*
tion playing from KTHS every
morning." *J.S.» Hoavener, ®kl© 0
* Actual pupils’ names on. request.
Pictures by Professional Model#.,

WHIOFINSTRUMEN?
teO VOP WANT TO
UARnItoIPLAY?

Thousands have learned to play this qirick, easy
short-cut way, right at home -AND YOU CAN, TOO!

Ym s thoueands have learned to play
quickly and easily this remarkable
"Print and Picture” way. And if you
©pend only a half hour of your spare
time each day following the instruc-
tions, you, too, should be able to
play simple melodies sooner than
you over dreamed possible.

Have Real Fun Learning

That's why it’s such fun learning music
this modern, short-cut U, S. School way.
You learn to play by playing. With this
amazingly quick, easy method you need
no special talent or previous musical train-
ing, Neither do you need to spend endless
hours on humdrum scales and tedious
exercises. You learn to play real tunes
almost from the start. And you can't go
wrong. Because first you are told how to
do a thing by the simple printed instruc-
tions. Then a picture or diagram shows
you how to do it. Finally you do it your-
self and hear how it sounds. Nothing
could be clearer. And sooner than you
©ver expected you’ll be thrilled to find
that you can pick up almost any popular
pSec© and play it by note.

See how easy it is i

And just think! With the many U. S.
School Courses to choose from, you can
take lessons on any instrument you select,
for less than 7c a day! That includes every-
thing . . . valuable sheet music, printed
instructions, diagrams and pictures, and our
Personal Advisory Service ... no extras
of any kind. Is it any wonder that thousands
have taken advantage of this modern way
to learn music at home in spare time . . „
and to win new friends, greater popularity,
and enjoy musical good times galore?

Send for Free Proof

If you really want to learn music . . .
to be invited everywhere . . . and get lots
more fun out of life . . . mail the coupon
below asking for Free "Print and Picture”
Sample and Illustrated Booklet. See for
yourself how easy and pleasant it is to learn
to play this modem, short-cut money-saving
way. Check the instrument you want to play.
Don't wait ... do it now! U. S. School of
Music, 2949 Brunswick Bldg,, New York
10, N, Y,

PREFERS HOME STUDY
METHOD

"I have taken lessons from a pri-
vate instructor but grew tired of
long hours of practice and discon-
tinued my study. After studying
your course for only 30 minutes
daily, I am now playing for my
Church Choir with much ease."
*X. L. W., Hubbard, Texas,

book at the diagram. The first note on the music is "C”.
Follow the dotted, line to the keyboard and locate ”0” os
the piano, Find the other notes the same way, Now strike the
notes as indicated and you’ll be playing the melody of the
lass esss patriotic hymn ''America,** Easy m A-B-C, isnft it?

U. S. SCHOOL OF MUSIC |

2949 Brunswick Bldg., New York 10, N. Y.

I am interested in music study, particularly in the Instrument l
checked below. Please send me your free illustrated booklet, "HoW §
to Learn Music at Home” and free ‘‘Print and Picture” Sample 1 '! *

Plan©

Guitar Reed Organ

Hawaiian Guitar Tenor Banjo
Violin Ukulele

Saxophone Clarinet

Plan© Accordion
Name

Trumpet, Cornet Trombone
“ ‘ * Flute

Piccolo
Mandolin
Practical Modern

Finger" Elementary

Control Harmony

Have you instrument — .........

(PLEASE PRINT)

Address...

City.

...State...

NOTE: If you are under 16 years parent must sign coupon^

1 rsi/ris: j

feave*^o‘— Stick coupon on penny po*tcard.“‘

POPULAR LIBRARY

The reading public of America, the most impressive Readers’
Jury ever convened, has voted hundreds of thousands strong
for the books published in Popular Library editions! Chosen
by the public, acclaimed by critics, Popular Library books
are certain to please you, to hold you, to entertain you.
Popular Library’s list of 25 0 books
includes all fields of literature — fic-
tion, non-fiction, mysteries, collections
yet of humor, westerns, etc. Handsomely
W illustrated covers, clear printing and
* r ' 9 Vr strong neat bindings are some of the
a* pluses which make you wonder how .

Ig, you can get so much f oi only a quarter ! mm

Wk For a few hours of reading enjoy-

ment, for a permanent place in your &

* library or for a gift, be sure to get ■

'Sk Popular Library editions — books a] .'h

p'oven merit. Jlllllllll

Peter Talbot, uaoffScM
operadve of the Foreign
Office, becomes a mem»
ber of a gang of pi erase
thieves so that he can un-
mask their leader in “Roll-
ing Stone" by Patricia
Wentworth*

Coming back to take over
an inherited range, Walt
Devon plunger into bla&-
ing action in -thh colorful
novel of the Old West—
•‘Timbal Gulch Trail" by
Max Stand.

POPULAR

LIBRARY

BOOKS OF
PROVEN MERIT

A Few Titles for 1946

rnrcr. IW THE SUN tv Niven Hutch

THE SEA HAWK

THE MORTAL STORM

STELLA DALLAS

LUMMOX

THE RIGHT MURDER

FATAL DESCENT.

#»££•£ AY ALL
4J STANDS

POPULAR LIBRARY, 10 B. 40th St,
New York 16, N, Y,

TROUBLE SHOOTER...

BUCKY FOLLOWS

A COLD TRAIL.

Mayson raised the lovely girl in his arms

The Multillionth Chance

By JOHN RUSSELL EEARN

Physicist Giant May son re-creates I ana, the wonder girl
of long ago, out of scattered atoms — hut between them
stands the memory of Anrax, long-dead master of science!

CHAPTER I
Mystery Girl

RANT MAYSON had done the job so
many times it had lost all its fascina-
tion. Long ago, when he had been a
mere apprentice to this huge Transmutation

Laboratory, he had gaped in wonder at the
crash and crackle of twenty million volts of
man-made lightning flashing between anode
and cathode spheres as base elements were
changed into commercial products, or rare
metals, according to the demands of the
Government.

Now, after twelve years of continuous as-

AN AMAZING SCIENTIFICTION NOVEL

1® THRILLING WONDER STORIES

sociation with this particular scientific mira-
cle, he was in charge of Laboratory A and
not over-thrilled by it either.

Today, as usual, it was the same old rou-
tine. He sat with his long, lean body folded
up on the tub seat before the control board,
deep inside the massive textolite globe which
formed the cathode of the twin globes.
Through a minute observation slit he saw the
opposing globe fifty feet distant, the backdrop
of the laboratory equipment behind it.

“Lights out!” he barked into the telephone,
and total darkness descended outside his
globe.

There were no assistants inside the labora-
tory: they were in the power-control rooms
two blocks away from this center of vast
disturbances to come. Grant Mayson was on
his own, lord of the lightning indeed, atom-
smashing and metal-mutating brought to
such a fine art in this year of 1964 that the
efforts of Rutherford and Van de Graaf of
earlier years seemed like the stragglings of
amateurs by comparison.

Grant narrowed his keen blue eyes through
the slit in the spherical wall, and took a last
look round. He smoothed back the tumbled
dark hair from his forehead, reached out his
lean hand and closed the master switch.

Nothing to do now but wait for the dials to
tell him when the job was done. Unper-
turbed, he watched lightning flicker and
jump in rapid fire flashes. Green, blue,
lavender, violet arrows were presently stab-
bing to the dark laboratory roof and then
down the massive supporting columns to
earth, . . .

The electrical fury grew apace, discharging
its terrific main load into the giant vacuum
tube a few yards away, at the base of which
reposed the particular element to be con-
verted. In ten minutes, Grant knew, that
cube of crude metal would be gold, its atomic
makeup shattered — moulded, and trans-
formed into the precious metal.

Gradually the whole laboratory began to
quiver in an eery glow of streamers and fire-
balls as twenty million volts crashed between
the globes. Four minutes — five — six —

T EN! The indicator needle quivered on
the red line.

Grant shut off the power and the miniature
thunderstorm came to a sudden end.

“Lights!” he snapped. He eased his lanky
figure out of the chair, mopped his face, then
opened the airlock of the dome.

The cold-light arcs were blazing down from
the roof now, flooding the wilderness of ap-
paratus. Grant climbed steadily down the
metal ladder, smiling at a sensation which
once had worried him, that feeling of cramp
and of having the hair lifted straight up by
the static electricity. The reek of ozone, the
smell of hot oil — same old set up.

Humming a tune to himself he crossed the
waste of concrete floor towards the vacuum-
tube chamber, then half way to it he paused
and blinked. His whistling stopped in mid
bar and an expression of astounded wonder
settled on his lean young face.

There was something in the center of the
floor that had no conceivable right to be
there. A girl! She lay flat on her back, arms
flung back over her head, legs stretched out
in front of her.

“What the devil!” Grant whispered, mov-
ing a step or two closer to look at her.

She was not like any girl one would see
around in the ordinary way. For one thing
her clothing was unusual. It consisted of a
one piece garment with short sleeves, the
material radiating light as though sewn with
thousands of minute diamonds. Two dainty,
sandaled feet were outthrust revealing a
shapely turn of ankle. The arms below the
sleeves were delicately moulded, the shoul-
ders supple and broad. Blond hair lay swept
back from her wide forehead, partly from
natural tendency and partly from electric
reaction.

Grant moved directly over her and studied
her face. It was oval and intelligent, with
rather high cheekbones and delicately pointed
chin. The brows were smooth and the nose
straight. She had a firm yet womanly mouth.

It suddenly dawned on Grant how utterly
impossible the whole occurrence was. The
laboratory was tightly locked. Only he and
the Chief of Staff had the combination. By
no possible means could this girl have en-
tered here — and certainly the place had been
empty before he had started up the gener-
ators. He recalled his final survey. So?

A LTHOUGH a scientist, he was only thir-
ty-three, and he could not deny he ex-
perienced a certain thrill of pleasure as he
raised the girl gently in his arms. There was
something about the contact of her body. But
her eyes remained closed, her arms limp. To
all intents and purposes she was out cold.
Grant took her across to the nearest bench
and laid her down upon it, pulling off his

12 THRILLING WONDER STORIES 5

smock and rolling it up for use as a pillow.

A bell shrilled. He turned impatiently to
the department telephone. The voice of Bal-
more, chief of staff, was at the other end.

“Finished with Mutation Forty-two-G,
Mayson?” he asked.

“I — er — yes, sir, I’ve finished.” Grant
rubbed his head. He was a trifle perplexed.
“Good! What results?”

“Results?” Grant looked towards the vac-
uum tube and gave a sudden start. “I don’t
know yet, sir. I haven’t looked.”

“Haven’t looked!” Balmore ejaculated.
“How the devil much longer are you going
to be? I’m waiting for your report. Or is
there something wrong?”

“Well, not exactly, sir. I just — er — ”

“There is something wrong!” Balmore de-
cided. “I’ll come over right away.”

Grant winced and put the receiver back.
He realized now that he was in considerable
difficulty. Women, unless they were tech-
nicians and specially authorized by the Sci-
ence Council, were utterly taboo in the
varied departments. Any infraction meant
dismissal. And here was a startling and none
too discreetly attired blonde lying out cold
on the bench.

Grant was a fast thinker when it came to
physics, but in this emergency he was
stumped.

In the intervening time he tried to think
up half a dozen places where he could con-
ceal the lady, but none of them seemed
practicable. He was still trying to make up
his mind when the laboratory door lock
clicked and Stephen Balmore came in.

n E WAS a small, sharp-featured man,
likeable enough in his way, but filled
with the austerity inseparable from his high
position.

“Just what is wrong here, Grant?” he de-
manded, striding forward. “You’re taking
the devil of a — great guns!”

He broke off, as he caught sight of the girl.
“That’s the reason, sir,” Grant said un-
easily. “I give you my word that I don’t know
where she came from. I’d just finished my
routine when I found her lying unconscious
on the floor.”

“Oh!” Balmore said.

As a man of the world he did not commit
himself any further for the moment. He
went closer to the girl and stared down at
her, stroking his chin, his eyes traveling down
the rounded lines of her figure.

“Extraordinary!” he said, and coughed
sharply.

Grant said nothing for the moment because
he feared the wrong words might pop out.

“You realize this can be very serious, May-
son?” Balmore’s use of the surname showed
he was on his high horse. “You know the
rules. It is preposterous for you to say that
this woman just — just happened. Science is
not magic, you know. She must have been
hidden here, or something, and the electricity
discharge probably drove her out of conceal-
ment. Then she was overcome. She looks as
though she has come from some kind of so-
cial party. The dress, I mean. Amazing
material!”

“I don’t agree that she was hidden some-
where, sir,” Grant said, with sudden firm-
ness. “This laboratory was totally empty
when I began, and she was here when I’d
finished. The only thing that happened be-
tween my checkup and discovery of her was
the discharge of twenty million volts of elec-
tricity. That, under certain conditions, might
produce many things!”

“But not a blonde, young man!”

Balmore considered, then his sternness
relaxed a trifle.

“I don’t want to jump to conclusions, Grant,
for if I do you may find yourself without a
job. I don’t want that. If you can find a
logical reason for this occurrence, I’ll ask the
Council to give you a full hearing. For the
moment this young lady had — er — better be
removed to the hospital.”

Balmore paused and watched sharply as the
girl suddenly moved lazily. In fact she would
probably have fallen off the bench entirely
had not Grant seized her shoulders. Lan-
guidly she sat up and opened a pair of very
large, steady gray eyes.

Grant looked at her, and Balmore peered
over his shoulder.

“Who are you?” Grant demanded. “How
did you get here?”

For a moment or two she did not seem to
understand. Then she broke into a tumbling
succession of strange words. Short little sen-
tences with the words oddly broken off. At
the end of two minutes of nonstop gibberish,
she looked from one man to the other in
plaintive inquiry.

“No good,” Grant shrugged. “We don’t
understand you. Do you, sir?”

“Hanged if I do,” Balmore replied. “I’m
not bad at languages, but this has me beaten.
We’d better get the experts to work. . . .

IS

the nui<xiLEiom:H caramar

Anyway, Grant, this lessens the charge
against you. This girl is not ordinary by any
means, either in language, looks, or — hmm! —
figure.” He glanced at her keenly.

“Fine girl, confound it,” he growled.

Grant smiled in relief and by motions
showed the girl that she was expected to
stand up. She nodded her golden head and
slid gracefully from the bench. She was about
five feet eight tall, with the majestic carriage
of a queen.

“This way.” Balmore motioned, taking her
arm. He nodded back at Grant. “Get the
report of that mutation, Grant, then come
along to the hospital. We’ll see what we can
do there.”

Giant nodded, bitterly aware of the fact
that he dare not show he was jealous of his
chiefs monopoly of the mystery girl.

CHAPTER II
The Council Decides

T HE inexplicable arrival of a beautiful girl
in a physical laboratory at the height of
an atom-smashing process was something
that cap'tured the rather science-steeped
imagination of the mass of people.

Dozens of stories were circulated, printed,
radioed, and televized, few of which bore re-
lation to the truth. The Science Council did
not like it, either, and frowned with ever in-
creasing severity on the hapless young sci-
entist whom they deemed responsible for
their sacrosanct laws being broken.

For all the efforts of Stephen Balmore,
Grant found himself in an increasingly pre-
carious situation. He had a week to find a
reasonable explanation or else be dismissed.
The fact that the language experts said the
girl spoke gibberish did not count. After all,
any girl could talk gibberish if she wanted
to.

It appeared far more likely that for some
reason the studious Grant Mayson had kicked
■over the traces and somehow gotten himself
entangled. The scandal mongers worked
overtime on this theory. As for the girl’s
clothing, dress designers were of the opin-
ion that it was certainly rare stuff, but it
could be an exclusive creation from abroad.

Grant saw the danger lights ahead. He
went to visit the girl in her private room at

the hospital and struggled valiantly to get
some sense out of her. Attired now in the
clothes normal to the day and age, she had
lost thereby none of her beauty but she had
certainly become more bewildered. All she
could do to Grant’s impassioned questions
was raise her graceful shoulders helplessly,
or spread her hands, or — chiefly — just gaze
fixedly with her big gray eyes.

“But, Miss Who-ever-you-are, this is aw-
ful!” Grant cried, pacing the room in agita-
tion. “What can I do to make you under-
stand? You must have a name, or some-
thing?”

“A — name?” she repeated awkwardly.

Grant pointed to himself and said “Grant
Mayson” until his throat was dry. The , girl
gathered the implication finally and said
“Iana” several times. Her name was at last
established.

“You came here,” Grant said deliberately,
sitting down opposite to her. “Nobody knows
how — but you do.” Then as she just sat and
waited, he sighed and rubbed his hair. “What
am I talking about?” he groaned. “I might
as well describe the calculus to a baby!”

He paused, his eyes brightening at his own
unthinking remark.

“Calculus!” he repeated softly. “Mathe-
matics! Say, maybe I have something. The
law of mathematics is universal, according to
the savants. Look, Iana, do you understand
this?”

He whipped up a piece of paper and put
three figures on the sheet — three figure Ts —
drew a line underneath and added “6.” The
girl studied it for a moment.

After he had put four 7s she wrote 28 with-
out hesitation. The figures she made were
distinguishable, though not entirely normal
in outline.

“You understand me!” Grant yelped.
“We’ve mathematics in common! What else
have you?”

Evidently quite a deal for, as he handed
the paper to her, she went to work busily
with normal figures, then complicated ones,
and finally threw in a problem or two in j
Euclid for good measure. This done, and sat- j
isfied Grant understood, she began the exe- !
cution of complicated formulae which made
Grant, for all his pretty extensive scientific j
knowledge, frown deeply.

Finally he gave up watching her figuring
and instead gazed at her intelligent, mobile
features as she worked. He read sharp per-
ception there, a great gift for abstract reason-

14 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

ing, purpose in the chin. This girl was not
figuring for amusement, which was one rea-
son why he felt there was deep meaning to
the paper of figures she finally handed to him.

“For me?” he asked, pointing to himself.

She nodded promptly, then pantomimed
an attitude of deep concentration, pointing at
him earnestly.

“For me to study,” he nodded. “Right, I
will — though I don’t think it’s going to be a
picnic. . . . See you later.”

He left the room quickly and headed
straight for the analytical department in his
own place of work, where he could have the
free run of the mathematical calculators
which could do much of the work for him.

It was four in the afternoon when he went
in and the staff, though curious, paid no at-
tention to him. They had all gone and it was
midnight when he had finished.

He smiled slowly to himself, rubbing his
somewhat aching head as he surveyed the
figures.

“So that’s it!” he whispered. “She’s told
me, through the universal language of figures.
I fit in the odd parts by my own imagination.
The multillionth chance came off! Wow, is
this something for the Scientific Council!”

D URING the following afternoon, in re-
sponse to his special request that his
defence be heard, the Science Council met.
They took their seats in the raised tiers and
waited for the proceedings to begin. Grant
was standing on one raised dais in the center
of the huge room, and the unknown girl was
poised majestically on a dais some yards
from him.

Silent, some of them grim-faced, the scien-
tists looked down on the two chief figures in
the drama. On the one hand was a young
man prepared to fight for his position as a
scientist, and on the other the fate of an un-
known girl was at stake. For unless some
definite reason could be given for her pres-
ence, both in the laboratory and the city it-
self, law would demand her removal to a
vagrant’s colony, about the worst fate that
could befall anybody.

“You have a solution to this — er — puzzling
affair?” Balmore asked, as' presiding chair-
man of the Council.

“I have, sir — -yes. How much of it you and
the gentlemen of the Council will believe
depends entirely on your scientific credulity.
Yesterday, this girl — who gives her name to
me as Iana — handed to me a mass of com-

putations she had worked out, I have defi-
nitely established that she is a first class
mathematician and — if we could only under-
stand her — she is probably a. first class scien-
tist, too. However, I have the original figures
here — ” Grant waved a sheaf of papers in the
air “ — and my own studies along with the
mathematical machines have worked them
out. Iana explains her appearance amongst
us as a multillionth chance of Nature. The
same kind of chance that might cause a kettle
of water to freeze on a fire instead of coming
to a boil.”

“What precisely has that to do with it?”
asked one member acidly.

“I am not a great scientist, gentlemen,”
Grant said quietly. “For that reason I would
like to hark back for a moment to a master
mind of bygone days — Sir Arthur Eddington.
He sums up our case very neatly when he
says — ‘By a highly improbable, but not im-
possible coincidence, the multillion particles
making up an organic or inorganic body
might accidentally arrange themselves in a
distribution with as much organization as at
an earlier instant. The chance is about one
in twenty-seven billion million, which proves
that the world is a mass of probabilities, drift-
ing towards greater and greater disorganiza-
tion and final entropy.*”

“Yes, yes, quite,” Balmore agreed. “We
know the law of probability, entropy, and
chance. But do you really mean to say that
this young woman here actually came into
being by — by some law of chance?”

“Eddington, sir, approximates the time for
the re-formation of a former mass of atomic
aggregates into a prior setup at something
like three million years,” Grant answered.
“That, though, is purely an arbitrary time:
it could be longer, or shorter. What I say is
this: The girl has existed somewhere before,
and perhaps she died. Her atomic makeup
was automatically dispersed, maybe drifted
free in the cosmos but — by the law of chance,
operating in a way it will yet take us centu-
ries to fully understand — the exact aggre-
gates, down to the last detail, formed again
into just the identical pattern of a former
instant. This fact, and the terrific electrical
interplay in the laboratory — where those
atoms at that moment must have been drift-
ing, unresolved — brought about a sudden re-
constitution.

“This girl took on a former pattern, even
‘Neva Pathways in Science by Sir Arthur Eddington.

THE MULTILLIONTH CHANCE IS

to the last jewel on her dress, and so — lives
again! It might never happen again through-
out eternity. But it happened this time! The
multillionth chance came off! You have to
admit, gentlemen, that you might take a deck
of cards, shuffle it completely, and yet find it
back in the original order when you exam-
ined it. It would be a multillionth chance,
but it could happen! And it has happened
here with this girl. . . .”

There was silence for a moment, the girl
watching intently and Grant rather surprised
at his own ready grasp of the complicated
situation.

“Certainly,” Balmore said presently. “We
admit the theory of chance, because we are
scientists. But how do you account for the
mind of this girl? If she once died, how does
it happen that her mind is operating again?”

W ITH knitted brows Grant considered
the question carefully before replying.
“I cannot go into the deep issues with my
limited knowledge, sir,” he answered. “But
I do suggest to you that a mind is disembodied
unless it operates through a particular con-
figuration of atoms — a body. No two bodies
are the same; hence none but the mind for
that body can operate through it. It seems
therefore that the mind of Iana operated per-
fectly through her former body. It became
disembodied when her body died, but when
the same reassembly appeared her mind au-
tomatically operated through that setup
again.”

Once more the silence.

Then a derisive laugh burst from one of
the members.

“Of all the preposterous theories to explain
an unknown girl in a private laboratory, this
is the most unique. I’ll see if I can remember
it to tell my wife the next time I come home
late.”

There was a titter of amusement and Grant
looked round at the faces rather desperately.
Head was nodding towards head, and it was
clear, despite his leaning towards belief, that
Balmore was obliged to obey the will of the
majority.

After some minutes of whispered conver-
sation he silenced the gathering with his
gavel and then stood up slowly.

iana, Mayson, Balmore and the
other scientists gazed in awed si-
lence through what appeared to be
clear glass down into a great room
where men were sitting at instru-
ment boards

18 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

“I am sorry, Mayson,” he said quietly.
“Deeply sorry! But your explanation is not
accepted. The Council rules that you be dis-
charged from your position and that this un-
known woman be handed over to the Vagrant
Commission. Your duties will terminate at
midnight tonight. The meeting is now closed.”

Grant stared stupidly, stunned by the edict.
Just as the assembly was about to rise the
girl herself hurried forward from the dais,
waving her hands imperiously.

Everybody paused, and Balmore waited
expectantly.

“Wrong!” the girl insisted, and repeated
the word several times. “Grant Mayson right!
I — I — ” She waved a helpless hand as she
searched for the right word. “I — prove!” she
exclaimed finally.

“So she does talk English after all?” a
member observed drily.

“Why not?” Grant demanded. “She is a
highly intelligent woman, and I spent a lot
of time yesterday trying to find a few words
she could understand. She’s been here long
enough to have picked up smatterings, any-
how. Give her a chance, I beg you!”

T HE girl glanced at him anxiously, then
back to Balmore.

“Prove!” she repeated urgently, pointing to
herself. “First — first learn — er — language.”
“That’s fair enough,” Grant cried. “Get the
best linguists in the country and in two weeks
she’ll talk better than any of us. You just
can’t condemn her, and incidentally me, with-
out a hearing.”

There was a momentary hesitation, and
Balmore seized his opportunity.

“That is fair enough, gentlemen,” he said.
“That the explanation is strange, even fan-
tastic, does not mean that it should be con-
demned summarily. At least, as scientists,
we should give the unusual every chance to
prove itself. Am I x’ight?”

Gradually heads begun to nod, and finally
the majority raised their hands in agreement.
Grant looked round with a sigh of relief,
then hurried forward and caught the girl’s
arm.

“Can I make this my own responsibility,
sir?” he asked, and Balmore gave a grave
nod.

“You can. Miss— er— Iana will remain at
her room in the hospital, and there will be
special hours allotted for you and the lin-
guists to see her. Upon that decision the
Council rests.”

CHAPTER III
Iana Demonstrates

A FTER getting this reprieve, Grant May-
son wasted no time. He summoned lan-
guage experts from all parts of the country
to pour forth their knowledge to the eager,
interested girl. Now that she realized some-
thing definite was afoot she was desperately
anxious to leam — as indeed were the lin-
guists to gain the rudiments of her own odd
language.

For a week the exchange went on — for a
fortnight. At the end of that time, thanks to
a ready brain and every modem invention
for expressing phonetics and inflexion, the
girl was word perfect. But her mentors were
baffled. Her own language was utterly un-
known which, if anything, served to strength-
en the case for her and Grant.

“Before we go to the Council room again
tomorrow morning,” Grant said seriously,
paying his nightly visit for the fourteenth
time, “can’t you tell me beforehand what this
is all about? I mean, I sort of feel entitled
to it.”

She smiled gently, laid a delicate hand on
his arm.

“Of course you are entitled to it, Grant.
But, told in plain, cold words such as I have
learned it would not even be credible. To
explain in detail I need to use telepathy, the
science of the mind. Then, and only then,
will you and the other scientists thoroughly
understand the truth.”

“Oh!” Grant looked at her beautiful face
intently and he frowned a little. “But — but
to do as you say would mean the absolute
control of the minds of your listeners,
wouldn’t it?”

“Of course,” she agreed simply.

Grant got to his feet and began to pace the
room slowly.

“You can’t just say that, Iana. I don’t know
yet where you come from, but I do know that
we at least are limited to the merest outlines
of telepathy. It is only with difficulty that we
can send a mental message across a gap, and
even then we sometimes need electrical am-
plification. Yet you oasually suggest bend-
ing many wills to your own. It can’t be
done!”

“Yes, Grant, it can,” she answered, quite
undisturbed. “I understand telepathy com-

THE MULTILLIONTH CHANCE 17

pletely. I know I am dealing with a race of
people not particularly clever. By that I
mean that they do not understand, as yet, the
secrets of radiant energy, pure atomic force,
ethereal waves, and so on. In fact, so far, you
yourself are about the cleverest scientist I
have encountered. You are clever, you
know,” she added seriously, as he looked at
her in surprise. “You worked out everything
from those figures I gave you, just by using
your imagination. That signifies mental abil-
ity of a high order. It’s funny, really.”

“How — funny?”

“You remind me a little of Cal Anrax.”
Her voice had become quite wistful now. “He
was clever too, and a marvelous scientist. We
were to have been what you call married,
only — Well, he was a wonderful man with
a fine, keen brain. And yet he was so gentle,
so fine a ruler. You remind me of him quite
a lot, even in appearance.”

Grant looked at her wide gray eyes fixed
upon him, and gave a little cough.

“I’m not so hot, Iana. I’m just a routine
scientist with a liking for the unexpected
and a gift for solving scientific problems. As
for this genius of a Cal Anrax, your marriage,
and the reason why it didn’t come off — well,
it is what we call double talk. I’ll need the
facts before saying anything.”

“And you shall have them, tomorrow,” she
promised, and from that moment Grant lived
only for the following day.

When he and the girl faced the Council
again she simply repeated all that she had
told him — that telepathy alone could make
matters clear.

“Then what do you suggest?” Balmore
asked. “There are two hundred of us here.
You do not seriously suggest that you could
get the whole two hundred of us in sympathy
with your own mind?”

“With so much disbelief, no,” the girl ad-
mitted. “What I would like is for six of you
who are willing to believe — which includes
you, Dr. Balmore — to become willing sub-
jects of my experiment. It will not take long,
no more than an hour. But in that period I
can make everything clear to you, can outline
a history such as you have never dreamed
of, and which will add itself to the annals of
your own scientific records.”

“You mean here — now?” Balmore asked,
wondering. Iana nodded her fair head.

I MMEDIATELY face bent towards face in
consultation; then at length Balmore rose

and with four other members stepped down
from the highest tier to the center of the big
floor. Grant too moved from his dais and
joined the little group.

“Sit down,” the girl invited — and chairs
were brought. At her orders the six men
made a circle with her in the center, standing,
and looking at each of them in turn.

“I would like the windows covered,” she
added, glancing round, so Balmoje gave the
order and deep gloom fell upon the big hall.
To Grant, watching intently, the girl’s figure
remained faintly visible as she moved to look
at each man closely.

Then, gradually, as she stood before him
at length, he felt a strange sensation creep-
ing over him. A lack of interest in his sur-
roundings, deepening into an intense, dreamy
lethargy. The girl’s voice floated to him—
reedy, faraway.

“What you will shortly experience will be
the objective viewpoint of a projected mind
— my mind,” she explained. “You will gaze
upon scenes and incidents, be a part of them,
and yet in no way connected, just as you
would watch the unfolding of a play on a
telescreen. All that you will see is fact, based
upon my own experience, as I know these
events happened. The remembrances of my
mind will communicate themselves to you and
finally — I trust — you will understand. . .

She ceased talking and there was a heavy
silence. Grant — all the men present indeed
— felt their senses slipping. A whirling, im-
palpable darkness closed in. . . .

* * * * *

Evening had settled over the Martian land-
scape. Over the ruling city of Jaloon with its
wilderness of white, delicately tapered build-
ings, across the fields and grazing land that
surrounded it, the sky had the violet tinge of
twilight and stars winked through the warm
air. Out in the west a single wisp of amethyst
cloud traced the sun’s departure.

There was quiet — the deep quiet of a city
that has conquered the distraction of noise.
Deeply buried power houses made not a
sound — the airliners creeping down to their
distant bases might have been drifting leaves
— the textalian rubber streets absorbed com-
pletely the sounds of endless traffic.

As the darkness deepened lights sprang up
simultaneously all over the city, steady,
white, shadowless fights which threw the
buildings into brilliant relief.

Cal Anrax, standing on the balcony at the
summit of the city’s controlling building,

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

IS

gave a little sigh. The peace did not delude
him in the least. News which he had received
only an hour before only made it look all the
more deceptive.

He was a tall man, spare and sinewy, the
strength of his still young figure revealed by
the brief, togalike costume he wore. Brown,
muscular hands gripped the safety rail. His
face had something of the keen steadiness of
a poised eagle as he looked out over the
expanse.

A light footfall disturbed his thoughts and
he turned sharply. The brief impatience on
his strong face faded into a smile of welcome.

“Iana — dearest. I wondered if you would
come.”

“But why not? You sent out a summons
for me, didn’t you? You hinted at news of
importance.”

“Yes. I am afraid it is all too important.”

Cal Anrax’s eyes studied the girl for a
moment — slender, blond, gray-eyed, the soft
night wind moulding her white, flowing gown
against the smooth curves of her figure. She
in her turn stood waiting, anxious.

“I’ve received serious news,” Cal Anrax
went on, looking back at the city. “We are
on the very verge of war. As you know, it
has been hovering like — like some primordial
menace for the last two years, and now it
has flared into imminent nearness. I dare to
think that before dawn invasion will have
commenced.”

“Vaxil!” The girl’s lips set bitterly.

“Yes, Vaxil.” Cal Anrax turned back im-
patiently into the expanse of his controlling
office and the girl followed him slowly. “It
has been perfectly obvious, Iana, for long
enough past that Vaxil has been heading for
war. A clever scientist, but not so clever
that he cannot see that war only ends in de-
struction for all. However, the uncomfortable
fact remains that he owns half this planet,
and we own the other half. We — more by
luck than judgment perhaps — have a united,
peaceable people behind us. Your father
handed over the control of the Western Hem-
isphere to me on his deathbed, and the people
have taken to me kindly. . . .”

"■WERE Anrax paused for a moment, as
AM. memories stirred within his mind.

“Our peace, our quiet scientific progress,
does not suit Vaxil or the people of the East-
ern Hemisphere,” he continued, after a mo-
ment. “They have not our sense of restful-
ness. The spirit of aggression is deep within

them. Why? Because Vaxil is not a good
psychologist. He invents laws that only irri-
tate his people, under the mistaken impres-
sion that he is doing them good. They cast
their eyes our way and see peace and
progress.

“If, perhaps, they could conquer us and
have the whole planet instead of half of it
then — they reason — they too could have peace
and advancement. So Vaxil has told them,
anyway, because he won’t be content with
anything less than the entire domination of
Alron. . . .

“An hour ago, Iana, I received news over
the telepath that a massive armada of air
machines and a million land cruisers are
ready to move. A robot army of five million
is ready too. That ew «nly mean— war.”
“Yes, war,” the girl muttered. “To me it
will be a new experience for there has been
no war in two centuries, when the subdivi-
sion of the two Hemispheres was agreed
upon. I’ve only seen the conflict in the
records or heard it over the sound recaller.
But now — Cal, dearest!”

She caught at his arm suddenly.

“Can’t you make a last appeal to reason?
Send out a message to Vaxil and everybody
in the Eastern Hemisphere. You are the ruler
here, as fine a one and as great a scientist as
any that ever lived. I beg of you to try it —
as your betrothed, not as your royal adviser.
As a woman, my whole soul revolts against
this impending, senseless bloodshed.”

Cal’s firm lips broke into a faint smile. He
put an arm about the girl’s shoulders and
kissed her gently.

“How many women, how many betrothed,
have perhaps asked that of a man down the
centuries?” he murmured. “I respect your
motives, the sweetness of your sex which is
revolted by this beastliness. But I am the
master of a Hemisphere!” His voice grew
stern. “The ruler of ten million happy people
— scientists, all of them, with a right to five
and challenge all the devils of hell if their
progress be threatened.

“I shall make no appeal to reason, Iana. I
shall destroy Vaxil and all those who try to
attack us. Believe me, this has not caught me
unprepared. You see no airplanes, you see
no tractors, you see not a thing to prove that
our Hemisphere is defended. But it is! For
two years I’ve made preparations, so secret
I did not even dare to tell you.”

“I should have known,” she said quietly,
smiling. “Just for the moment I thought we

THE MULTILLIONTH CHANCE

19

were unprepared. . . . What happens now?”

“We go below,” he answered briefly. “My
headquarters are duplicated to be the same
a mile under the ground as they are here. I
can have around me every scientific need for
the direction of the battle — every eye and ear
of science to see what happens. You must
come with me. Alone there, with the fate of
millions in my hands, I should feel none too
sure. But with you, wife-to-be, I can do
anything!”

He took her arm, and without further
argument she followed him across the big
room to a shield in the wall. Pressure on a
button sent it sliding up soundlessly. They
stepped into a small elevator and pressure on
another button released the compressed air
from beneath its floor. Swiftly, without any
sensation of falling, they dropped a mile into
the earth and stepped out into a huge room
— flooded with light — which was an exact
replica of the office they had just left.

Behind them, as they walked forward, the
tertanex shield went back into place. Hardly
had Cal reached the control desk with its
seven hundred vital buttons before the inter-
com radio buzzed for attention.

“Yes?”

A uniformed guard appeared on the tele-
plate.

“Evacuation is complete, sir, and all trained
scientists have been directed to their posi-
tions.”

“Good!” Cal closed a switch and snapped
another one urgently as a priority-screen
glowed urgently for attention. It was the un-
emotional face of the Directional Tower Con-
troller which appeared.

“Invasion has been launched from Eastern
Hemisphere, sir,” he announced briefly.
“First aerial armada due in five minutes.”

^ »

Cal Anrax’s blue eyes hardened for a mo-
ment and his lean jaw tightened. He spoke
briefly into a microphone.

“Follow out Combat Plan Seventy-seven-
SA,” he ordered. “Report in fifteen minutes.
I’ll handle the rest from here.”

He switched off and sat down in the control
chair, motioned to Iana to settle beside him.
She obeyed without uttering a word, unwill-
ing to disturb his concentrations. In silence
she kept her eyes fixed on the giant central
screen which gave a complete televized view
of the city and landscape outside.

CHAPTER IV
Red War

I T WAS not long before menacing shapes
appeared. The night sky outside was
presently patterned by dark, swiftly moving
shapes. With the moments they came so thick
and fast that the stars themselves were blot-
ted out.

Then came hell itself! Concussion smote
the city, concussion so violent that even at
this mile depth the buried control room quiv-
ered under the impact.

Again — and again — until the quivering
merged into one complete vibration. Cal An-
rax gave a grim smile. His lean fingers be-
gan to play over the control keys in front of
him as though it were a complicated organ,
Iana, though by no means an amateur scien-
tist, could not even hope to guess at the sub-
tle mechanics involved. Cal Anrax himself

[ Turn page]

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

20

had invented this master-keyboard, the
brains of a city’s defense, and since he was
the greatest scientist the Western Hemisphere
had ever produced there was no point in her
questioning him.

She caught her breath suddenly and
watched intently in the major and minor
screens as the swarming armada of bombing
planes was suddenly changed from a dark,
shapeless mass against the stars to a plainly
outlined solid phalanx of fliers. Secret flood-
lighting, directed from the bowels of the city
and merging into one flaring sea of light, had
every section and fragment of the attacking
fleet enveloped in an effulgence as bright as
day.

“Now we can see what we’re doing,” Cal
murmured, his fingers still playing on the
keys.

The automatic defenses of the city came
into being immediately under his remote con-
trol. Blast rays ripped forth, leaving a wake
of condensation in the air. Neutronic guns
hurled their deadly load into the bellies of
the fliers. From directional towers at the
city’s four corners radiant energy spread
forth in its basest and most deadly form,
heating the attackers to an intolerable degree
by the sudden kinetic interchange.

Chaos broke loose.

The fliers turned and twisted and dived
to escape one defense and ran smack into
another. Three planes crashed and their
bombs with them. Others fell in the middle
of the city and exploded with cataclysmic
violence. Cal had formed a complete trap
round the city. To escape from the neutron
guns meant colliding with the radiant energy
waves, and to escape from those meant run-
ning the deadly battery of blast rays.

Not that the city itself was improved by
the counter onslaught. The bombs fell just
the same, sowing ruin in a criss-cross pattern.

The intercom buzzed and Cal flicked the
switch.

“Land armor invaders two miles south of
city, sir,” said the impartial Directional Tow-
er Controller.

Cal nodded and threw another series of
buttons into commission. Out on the city
outskirts another mass of scientific equip-
ment moved to the ready —

Then, abruptly, there was a concussion so
violent from somewhere above that the un-
derground room rocked beneath it. Cal found
himself half flung from his chair and Iana
went pitching against the control board.

Other things had happened too. The flaring
illumination light on the armada had van-
ished. Cal’s frantic play over the switches
failed to have any effect in any direction.

“The devil!” he breathed, staring at the
power-meters fixedly. “Look! Power’s
stopped!”

He met the girl’s wide, anguished eyes.

“Only one explanation,” he said bitterly.
“Somewhere we have a traitor amongst us —
a thing I could never have expected. I was
of the opinion we were united. That concus-
sion we felt. It must have been from the
major power room buried a mile away. All
my apparatus was powered from there. And
somebody’s destroyed it!”

For a moment he seemed incapable of
thinking. He stared mutely at the giant
screen, operating from its subsidiary unit.
He winced at the concussion of a rain of ex-
plosives from above.

“I can’t fight the inevitable,” he whispered,
clenching his fists. “Without power we’re
helpless.” His hand reached out for the
microphone. “Good job the subsidiary unit
feeds the radio equipment and lighting any-
way. . . .”

“But what are you going to do?” the girl
demanded, catching his arm.

LOOKED at her steadily.

“I am going to surrender.”

“But you can’t surrender! Don’t you real-
ize what it means if Vaxil gains control of our
Hemisphere?”

“Of course. But I also realize that he has
got control already. I can’t fight without
weapons, and the only way to save something
from the wreck is to surrender on the best
terms we can get. It isn’t cowardice, Iana;
it’s common sense. It isn’t his scientific skill
that has given him the victory; it’s my own
stupidity! For one thing I trusted the people
too much and did not suspect a possible
traitor, and for another I made the fatal mis-
take of concentrating all my defensive power
in one spot. With the heart destroyed, so are
we.”

Cal turned and switched on the micro-
phone.

“Cal Anrax speaking,” he announced brief-
ly. “Put me in direct touch with Vaxil over
priority waveband.”

There was an interval, then out of the
lambent weavings of color on the screen the
stern, sharply chiseled face of the Eastern
Hemisphere ruler appeared.

21

THE MULTILLIONTH CHANCE

“You have something to say?” he asked,
laconic as always.

“Only a few words,” Cal answered in a
quiet voice, “I am prepared to surrender.
What are your terms?”

“Unconditional! With your main source of
power gone what else do you expect?”

“What does ‘unconditional’ constitute?” Cal
asked.

Vaxil reflected for a moment.

“You are a brilliant man, Cal Anrax, and
a scientist like myself. For that reason I am
inclined to extend clemency. The terms I
impose demand your personal surrender to
my commander in the field, together with the
personage of the Princess Iana and the twen-
ty men and women who form your Govern-
ment. That done, I will decide what shall
become of you.”

Cal was silent, his lips tight. He glanced
at the girl.

“You have no alternative,” she said, low
voiced.

Cal turned back to the instrument. “Very
well, I agree. Instruct your field Commander
to meet us in Central Square within an hour,
hostilities to cease forthwith.”

Vaxil nodded and switched off his instru-
ment. Cal did likewise, sat for a long moment
in thought, then with a shrug of his lean
shoulders he got to his feet.

“Does this mean — death?” the girl asked
soberly. “Tell me if it does, Cal. It’s only
right that I should know. I’m not afraid to
die.”

He put an arm about her.

“Everything depends on the mind of Vaxil,
dearest. He is not a vicious man, a swagger-
ing conqueror. He fancies himself as a kind
of magnanimous superscientist, and for that
very reason he may flatter himself by show-
ing us the courtesy to which our high rank
entitles us. If we escape death, there is much
I can do. If not — well, we’ll have to face it.
We’ll give them time to call off the war dogs.
Then we’ll go up to the surface.”

Iana got to her feet and stood in despondent
silence. Cal looked at her and smiled tautly.

“This isn’t the end, Iana,” he said gently.
“If life is still permitted to us we can yet
avenge these wrongs. I shall live only for
that! Remember that I am a better scientist
than Vaxil. I’ve made a mistake this time,
and I admit it. But give me the slenderest
chance to turn round and fight back and I’ll
smash Vaxil forever. I’ll reclaim not only
our own Hemisphere but conquer his as well.

You’ll see.”

It was three days later, with Vaxil fully in
power in Jaloon, before Cal Anrax and Iana,
with the men and women of their former
Government, learned their fate. They were
summoned before the Grand Council of Con-
querors in the city’s administration hall, and
in silence listened to the Eastern ruler as he
spoke from the head of the council table.

“Death is the obvious answer— but by no
means a sensible one,” he said slowly. “Only
fools destroy people who are clever scientists.
Yet on the other hand, if I permit you to live
on this planet there may come a time when
your ingenuity will prove to my detriment.
So, I have to choose between that possibility
on the one hand and death on the other. That
leaves only one course — banishment!”

C AL ANRAX tensed a little and cast Iana
a quick look. Around them the assem-
bled men and women waited, grimly silent.

“Not banishment to another part of Alron
where you might make an effort to regain
control,” Vaxil proceeded. “I mean banish-
ment to Vinra, the second planet from the
sun. It will be to another world altogether
where you cannot possibly make any attempt
to strike at us! By the same token you will
be able to make a stand for yourselves.
Whether you die or prosper, whether you
marry and bring forth young to carry on your
struggle, will be up to you. In the records of
this world at least you will be known as the
‘Outcasts’!”

“But Vinra is a terrible world!” Iana cried.
“Scorched and frozen, not a scrap of water, a
planet long since abandoned by our space
expeditions as dead. It’s a graveyard, and
you know it!”

“Perhaps,” Vaxil replied coldly. “You are
such ingenious scientists that you might make
it habitable — though I do not say how. At
least, if you die it will be your own fault and
I shall not have it on my own conscience. It
is not our intention that you should be hurled
to this arid, merciless planet without even
the means to save yourselves. I and the
Council are in agreement that you be allowed
six hours consultation among yourselves to
decide what equipment you wish to take with
you. Two space cruisers will be placed at
your disposal, but the controls on both will
be locked so that you can only land on Vinra
and nowhere else. When you reach Vinra
automatic devices will destroy the motors so
that no I'eturn is possible. One ship will carry !

22 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

you and your compatriots, and the other the
essentials you have chosen for your new life.
Have you, Cal Anrax, anything you wish to
say?”

For some reason he smiled slowly.

“No, Excellency — except to express my
thanks for your leniency. As the vanquished,
we rather expected instant death. All I ask
is that I be allowed the consultation imme-
diately.”

Vaxil rose to his feet and motioned to a
bronze door leading from the hall.

“You may retire immediately to the ante-
room. When you have reached your decision
press the signal button and you will be re-
leased. The Council will then consider your
report.”

Cal Anrax nodded and led the way across
the hall, into the broad expanse of anteroom
with its long shining table and polished chairs.
He took up his position at the head of the
table, Iana on his left hand side, and looked
down the two rows of faces, the men and
women whose lives were virtually in his
hands.

“We comprise a new race,” he said seri-
ously. “On the face of it that sounds a big
assertion, but it is true. Banishment to an-
other world means just that, especially when
that world is known to be dead. When we
arrive there, union and children will be our
only means of perpetuating the race. To that,
however, we will give our attention later.
For the moment I believe that Vaxil’s lack of
perception — his belief that we can do nothing
to avenge ourselves if banished to another
world — has placed a supreme chance in our
hands. I take it that we are agreed on one
thing only — vengeance?”

The men and women nodded firmly, and
the look in Iana’s gray eyes was sufficient
for Cal.

“Good!” he nodded. “I do not mean the
impetuous violence of revengeful fanatics, or
the half-hearted effort of the spiteful — but
cold, deliberately planned, scientific reprisal!
Vaxil and his cohorts have got to realize,
sooner or later, that the science of the West-
ern Hemisphere cannot be so easily disposed
of. I suggest, therefore, that in our choice
of materials for our new planet we take only
enough provisions for two years and make up
the remainder of our equipment in machine
tools. Arms we shall not need since the
planet is known to be quite dead.”

“Machine tools?” Iana repeated, mystified.
“But Cal, we shall need homes, protection

from the terrible heat and frost. I am of the
opinion we ought to take twenty-two pre-
fabricated homes.”

“No!” Cal shook his head firmly. “We’ll
find places to shelter, even as our ancestors
did. Caves if need be. What we need are the
tools to make tools, machines to mould met-
als, equipment to gouge out the solid rock,
instruments to create synthetic clothes and
food — in fact an assortment of machines to
build us gradually into a prosperous power
which, sooner or later, through the very use
of those machine tools, will give us the
chance to avenge!”

“Behind all this, I sense that you have some
mighty scheme,” Iana said slowly. “None of
us here is as expert in science as you so may-
be we cannot see your purpose. I’m prepared
to trust your judgment — -to the limit. And
you others?”

The men and women looked at each other,
murmured among themselves for a few mo-
ments. Then the chief physicist stood up.

“We agree, sir,” he announced. “The ex-
ample set by the First Lady of the Royal
House is sufficient for us. You’ll have our
full collaboration.”

“Good! Later you will see how right I am.
Now, here are the machines I suggest we
take. . . .”

And thereupon the debate on machine tools
began — and lasted for a couple of hours until
a fully detailed list was drawn up. The mat-
ter of immediate requirements in food and
weapons was simpler. In four hours they had
everything decided to their satisfaction and
Cal Anrax signaled for release.

CHAPTER V
Dedication to Vengeance

S ILENTLY Vaxil and the Council listened
to the list of requirements, and evidently
they saw no ulterior purpose behind it. Nor
had the room been wired for sound so that
any secrets could have been betrayed. Cal
knew at least that in Vaxil he had a man
who rigidly adhered to the laws of statecraft.

“Very well,” he agreed, when he had fin-
ished consulting his colleagues. “Your re-
quirements will be granted, Cal Anrax. The
second space cruiser will begin loading im-
mediately with the machines of your choice,

THE MULTILLIONTH CHANCE 23

together with provisions in the first cruiser
for your own use. You and your colleagues
will spend the night in captivity as before
and will prepare to depart at dawn. You, Cal
Anrax, will be given the opportunity for a
final checkup on the second cruiser’s con-
tents before departure is made. It will be for
you to choose a pilot from amongst your fol-
lowers.”

Cal nodded.

“Very well, Excellency. I have assigned
Ralix, my chief physicist, to that task.”

Vaxil rose to his feet.

“The matter is decided. Guard, return the
prisoners to their rooms.” . . .

Dawn was just streaking the eastern Mar-
tian sky when the space cruisers departed.
Below, in accordance with traditional cere-
mony, Cal and Iana watched the puffs of
smoke dispersing from the firing of the twen-
ty protonic guns in farewell salute.

Then the busy world of their birth was fall-
ing away swiftly into the gulf. It became a
wide landscape, circular, a concave circle,
and at last a globe. . . .

“The end of an old chapter and the begin-
ning of a new,” Cal said quietly, turning back
to the control board. “Now we are really
launched on a mighty venture.”

He closed a switch and the face of Ralix,
controlling the following cruiser of equip-
ment, appeared on the screen.

“Everything in order?” Cal asked briefly.

“Everything, sir,” .the physicist agreed.
“I’ll follow out your directions and report
any trouble the moment it arises.”

“That will be Vinra itself, I’m afraid,” Cal
said, smiling wryly. He switched off and gave
his attention to the board in front of him.

It was the beginning of a long, tedious
journey. All of them had made space trips
before — to Deimos, Phobos, or brief excur-
sions to highly valuable meteorites — but this
was the first time they had made a really long
trip. Formerly such journeys had been the
lot of tough space explorers.

If there was fear, none of the men and
women present showed it. They disposed
themselves in various parts of the big con-
trol room, or watched the eternal stars
through the ports. Iana, for her part, busied
herself in the section given over to sidereal
analysis, gathering together what facts she
could from the pin point of bright light
towards which they were heading.

Day and night — they were the same thing
with the eternal blaze of the sun. Steadily,

the motors fixed and unalterable, the vessels
pursued their course at swift cruising speed.
Cal and Ralix both were relieved at inter-
vals by robot controls.

Onwards past the mystery green world,
third from the sun, which space explorers
had found to be a planet as yet infinitely
young, filled with swirling gases, torrential
rains, and chaotic landscape. A world to be
— some day.

Half the journey was covered in tedious
monotony-three quarters. Then at last the
blinding white world of their destiny filled
the entire ebony void ahead of them. There
was no sign of anything except eye-searing
whiteness, an arid waterless landscape ex-
posed to a nakedly near sun. Serried moun-
tain ranges powdered with snowy dust, mon-
strous fissures and ravines, endless plains
wherein clouds of white powder whirled up
to the zenith in the thinnest of thin atmos-
pheres.

“Gravity nearly double that of our own
world,” Iana said, consulting the instru-
ments. “Atmospheric density about a quarter
less than our own. That means extreme thin-
ness. Very great heat — about two hundred
degrees.”

“In fact all the things we don’t like.” Cal
sighed, staring down through his purple gog-
gles. “This world is going to play the very
devil with our bodies, but maybe we’ll strug-
gle through. Here we go.”

He broke off, as the last stage of the jour-
ney began.

T HE tension was nerve racking as they
had no control over their fall. The crazy,
tortured landscape rose up towards them
with seemingly diabolical speed. Then they
began to feel the power controlling the mo-
tors lessen somewhat. The noses of both
machines rose gently preparatory to leveling
out. Giant rockets in the forefront flared
red. On the control board screen the face ol
Ralix appeared, strained and anxious as he
crouched over his controls.

Then, sweeping forward in an immense
arc, the leading machine landed and sent a
fountain of dust five hundred feet into the air,
Uncontrollable, it slithered for nearly half a
mile and halted near a ravine. To the reaf
the second machine performed the same
gyrations and finished up at right angles to
them.

The motors stopped, and from somewhere
in the power plant came the dull concussion

m THRILLING WONDER STORIES

of a small explosion. Fumes began to leak
out into the control room from the engine
casing.

“There goes our central transformer unit,”
Cal said grimly. “Vaxil was not pretending.
He has destroyed our chances of return. Ob-
viously here we are and here we stay.”

Nobody spoke. The death of the power
unit seemed trivial compared to the scene
about them. In every direction was a vast
desert of sun-blistered sand, cracked by
gorges, soaked in the withering heat of a
sun only 63,000,000 miles away. It was a
planet without the protection of clouds, a
planet from which the sun had long since
whipped water and nearly all the atmosphere.
Vinra — sunblasted for 720 hours and frozen
for another 720 — without life, without hope. . .

“It’s — it’s frightening,” Iana whispered at
last, turning her goggled eyes away from
the port.

C AL ANRAX smiled faintly, that look
of the eagle on his face.

“Yet it has to be conquered, dearest. And
it will be!”

Only by degrees, when Iana and the others
began to see — as Cal Anrax had seen long
since — that their domicile on Vinra was per-
manent, did they make real effort to conquer
its pitiless conditions.

The terrible sunshine, the scorching winds
from the dusty rainless plains, the incessant
glare which stung the eyes and blistered the
skin, made outside investigation almost im-
possible during daylight. Seven hundred and
twenty hours of it, and a night of almost
equal duration. — and even worse climatically
— when the moon rode the sky in pallid
grandeur and thick hoar frost descended the
moment the heat of the day had radiated off
into the vacuum of space.

Cal Anrax took the only course and, space
suited and goggled, with the strongest men
in the party similarly attired to help him, he
set about the task of building a habitation
for them all — not on the surface though, for
two reasons. One was the merciless climate,
and the other was because the plan he hoped
ultimately to mature demanded underground
protection.

Long, hard, tedious weeks passed into
months. Metals were sought and found be-
low surface, were fashioned in furnaces with
the machine tools and thereafter used for
moulding the raw materials into the desired
shapes.

For Iana, for each man and woman in the
group of twenty, there was work to do — and
they did it with a will because in such work
lay their one hope of salvation and the defeat
of the insanity which such a frightful world
could easily have caused. They made the
first cruiser their base, and through the
weary, dragging months of alternate sun and
frost they created a small underground city
half a mile below the surface.

At least they could work uninterrupted.
There was no sign of life on the dead planet
Apparently it had died young, its vapors dis-
sipating rapidly due to its extreme nearness
to the sun.

Slowly, surely, with the masterful genius
of Cal Anrax at the head, the underground
city grew from its first crude rudiments into
a worth while expanse, well lighted, and
with all modern amenities. But it took three
years of drudging labor to create all the metal
buildings they needed. Several were set
aside as machine-tool buildings only. There
also were well planned streets and syntheti-
cally created fields of pulverized rock and
fertilizer, irrigated by synthetic water, fields
which were already sprouting with the edible
roots necessary for staple foods.

A T LAST Cal reached the crowning point ;

of endeavor. He summoned everybody
to his own particular domicile for a confer-
ence.

“We have a habitation, half a mile below
the surface of a devil planet,” he said slowly,
his fists clenched. “Vaxil thought we would
die, and well we might have done so but for
our purpose and energy. But the time has
come now for vengeance — the vengeance I
planned long ago when we became outcasts!
And now it becomes doubly necessary be-
cause from ultra short wave messages I have
picked up it is clear that revolution has bro-
ken out on our home planet and practically
all our friends in the Western Hemisphere
have been slain. For that Vaxil and his re-
maining hordes are going to pay a deadly
price. I planned it long ago but hesitated over
putting it into action because it would have
meant destroying many of our own Western
people. Now that deterrent is removed.

“I am going to make this world fertile and
destroy Vaxil and his followers at the same
time. That, I consider, is just reprisal. . .”
“How?” asked Iana quietly.

“I propose to steal the air and oceans of
our home world!”

THE MULTILUONTH CHANCE

25

There were a few gasps and startled
glances.

“But that’s impossible!” protested Ralix.

“No, my friend; I have it all worked out —
and here is what we shall do. We shall re-
quire a tower rearing to a thousand feet, and
sunk to half that depth in solid bedrock. We
have unlimited metal and power now, so we
can do it. Scientifically, we know that grav-
ity is a force, that it can be heterodyned as
radio waves can be heterodyned. I propose
to direct a heterodyning beam across space to
our home world, which, upon striking it, will
encompass about a thousand miles of the
surface.

“This beam will be in the center of what I
might call a funnel of force — or in other
words walls of vibration solid enough to
withstand the sudden uprushing vortex of
water and air. With part of the home planet
degravitated, and this force funnel right over
that part, the air and oceans will be sucked
up the tunnel by following the course of least
resistance. But for our force funnel they
would spew sunwards, hence the presence of
the funnel to hold them in their fixed path
until they deluge down on the surface of
this dying world.

“It means the total destruction of our home
planet — on the surface anyway. But for two
reasons it must be done; One, as revenge;
two, because to expand and grow we must
live on the surface. We can do this if my
plan works as I think it will. . .”

T HERE was a long silence as the assembly
thought it out.

“How long is such a mighty project going
to take?” Iana asked.

“Two years, maybe. Time is not the factor:
it is the ultimate result. Place your faith in
me again and I guarantee that the science
and direction will be there. We can do it, if
all of you agree. If you do not we shall rot
out our fives slowly on this dead world, down
here. Marriage and children we cannot even
contemplate until we are sure we have a
worthwhile heritage to hand on. We can
have one. That is up to you.”

Finally Iana made up her mind. She raised
her hand in assent. Gradually the others fol-
lowed suit until every hand was raised. Cal
Anrax looked at them and nodded with satis-
faction.

“I thought I could rely on you. So, now
to work. Here are the draft plans I’ve worked
out.”

CHAPTER VI
Reprisal

F ROM then on his mighty scheme devel-
oped. A nearby mountain range was
selected and a site chosen. Scientific ma-
chines and implements were transported
thither. The outcasts worked like ants
against the glaring heights by day, toiled
with cold fight globes at night, aided by
robots, struggling, building, erecting a mighty
latticed tower of metal supported by cross-
pieces.

It took a year to complete it, its supports
sunk deep into the virgin rock. Then came
the harder part which Cal Anrax himself
had to supervise in the laboratories — the as-
sembly of the heterodyning apparatus, all of
it fixed in massive gimbals to allow universal
movement.

The actual source of power, to pass through
the graded lenses of the heterodyners, was
deep in the underground city, controlled
much the same as his former automatic de-
fensive machinery. And this time there
would be no traitor to foil a mighty endeavor.

Even when the array of tubes, electromag-
nets, and anode and cathode globes roped to-
gether by stout cables was finished, the work
was not over for Cal Anrax. He had to cal-
culate to a fraction the positions of Vinra and
his home world so that no mistake could hap-
pen over that distance of 73,000,000 miles. It
was a difficult calculation which needed the
mathematical machines to check and double
check. But it was done.

Two years and four months after he had
mooted the project he was ready, deep un-
derground with his followers in the special
projection-laboratory, the television screens
connected with the surface already trained
on the tower and the moonbathed, brazenly
clear landscape.

“We’re ready!” Can Anrax breathed heav-
ily, his eyes moving to the synchro-clock and
his hands on the master switch. “In five sec-
onds exactly.”

The deliberate seconds ticked by. On the
fifth one the master switch closed. Instantly
energies, terrific in violence, were released,
absorbed as they had been through twelve
months from the blazing sun itself. The
laboratory quivered in violet flame and

26 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

reeked with ozone.

Bolt upon bolt of energy slammed into the
transformer chambers and were hurled
thence to the complicated apparatus atop the
giant tower.

Every eye fixed on the telescreen. And,
suddenly, a lavender beam poured forth from
that heterodyner, stabbed like a blinding
amethyst searchlight into the starry sky and
became lost in remoteness. The arid plain
outside hazed with lavender electric inter-
play.

Six and half minutes to cross the gulf of
73,000,000 miles.

The synchroclock sliced onwards as the
power remained constant, as the din increased,
to hellish fury.

What happened on their home world the
Outcasts could only guess. They could imag-
ine the tumult, the inconceivable upheaval
which must have suddenly descended out of
a clear sky. . . .

But at last, timed to the second, the visible
evidence of their labor was there. The heter-
odyner atop the tower dimmed as the first
conglomerated mass of air and water from
the home planet came.

It spewed out through the center of the
apparatus — a titanic tumult of ice shards
which struck the mountain range and re-
bounded in an avalanche. It became greater,
mightier, blotting out the screen, the tower,
even the skies themselves. Even down in
the underworld the assembly heard the in-
credible roar of frozen matter thundering
down on their dead world.

Cal Anrax cut the power and smiled like
a ghost.

“A world has died, and another has been
born anew,” he said quietly. “With the dawn
we shall see what has happened. I fancy that
by now Vaxil knows the cost of trying to
dominate a planet.”

The others, even Iana, were silent. The
terrific power of the science they had just
witnessed had left them subdued and just a
little incredulous. . .

To the dawn was six hundred hours, and
when it came the Outcasts saw more things
than a rejuvenated world. Indeed they had
hardly gone to the surface and looked out
upon a desert turned green, at a distant in-
land sea, at dense clouds drifting across the
sky from the condensed moisture, before
other matters took their eye.

Across the sky, just below the clouds, an-
gry as buzzards, swept massive space war-

cruisers, bearing the insignia of the home
world.

C AL and Iana, standing at the sheltered
top of the underground funnel, half
way up the mountain side and therefore high
above the flood waters, watched the fliers
for a while as they searched ceaselessly.
Then finally they turned and vanished in the
clouds.

“Cal, they guessed,” the girl whispered,
catching his arm. “They’ve come to look for
us, to destroy us if they can. They must
have come while we were below during the
night. They had ample time.”

“They’ll never detect us though,” Cal an-
swered, thoughtful eyes on the sky. “They
must have a refueling base somewhere near
at hand. They wouldn’t send just a few
cruisers. There’ll be a whole fleet I expect,
if they got away in time. . . A base!” He
snapped his fingers. “That gives me an idea.
Come on back below.”

Iana accompanied him to the main labora-
tories when they arrived in the city again.
He went to work immediately with the X-ray
telescope, probing through the rock barrier
and clouds in all directions, scanning the void
above and at the antipode. At last he settled
the scanner-lens on the moon and operated
the controls swiftly.

On the mercury-sunk mirror the hard,
dead surface of Vinra’s small satellite came
into view, and upon it — facing Vinra — were
a mass of minute black oblongs in orderly
rows.

“There they are!” Iana cried excitedly. “A
whole armada of them!”

“Yes.” Cal Anrax frowned. “Enough to
cause the devil of a lot of trouble if they do
find us. We’ve got this world going now,
and with clouds and water and vapor it will
keep going, because we’ll add to it syntheti-
cally and stop evaporation. It is our heritage
and we’re going to keep it! One thing is
pretty sure; those machines there will con-
tain the cream of the warriors from our home
world. If they can all be wiped out to a man
there would remain only a few refugees and
maybe scientists to master, if we decided to
rule our own world again as well as this one.”
“That’s right,” Iana nodded quickly, as he
stood in thought. “Two worlds instead of
one.”

“And it can be done.” Cal Anrax looked at
her tensely. “It can be done. Why didn’t I
think of it sooner? That heterodyner of ours!

THE MULTILLIONTH CHANCE 27

The power can be easily converted by alter-
ing the rate of vibration. I can change it
from hetrodyne into pure force — disintegrat-
ing force!”

He swung, studying the power gauges.
“Not much juice left in the power plant but
it may be just enough. I’m going to risk it.
No time to consult the others. This is up to
you and me — so come on.”

He went hurrying out and along to the
projection-laboratory, began to calculate
swiftly with the adding machines. Then he
started up the power. Iana watched him
make the power conversion, shift the position
of the gimbaled projector by impulse vibra-
tions.

Then he closed that deadly master switch.

The roar of the power was only brief — not
more than thirty seconds. It had hardly died
away before its effect became evident. In
the relay screen linked to the distant tele-
scope, the moon with its base of warrior ma-
chines suddenly cracked in four pieces! These
in turn split with terrific violence, hurling
their meteoric fragments to the four corners
of the screen. The change in gravitational
balance was evident a few seconds later on
Vinra, too.

Cal Anrax and the girl clung to the switch-
board as the laboratory swayed sickeningly
up and down, as they heard outside the' roar
of disturbed air and pounding ocean, then
the lesser sound of feet running down the
outer passage.

Ralix and the other scientists burst into the
room in anxious inquiry.

Slowly the disturbance abated. Cal stood
upright again and turned to face them. Qui-
etly he explained what had happened.

“I destroyed a moon, and them, before they
could find and destroy us,” he finished. “It
would have been them or us for it. Now we
have another task. While this world settles
down to its rejuvenation we will travel back
to the mother world and deal with those who
remain. Our machines are well equipped
with weapons now and the motors have been
reset for just such a moment as this. Ralix,
make the necessary arrangements. The
sooner we depart, the better. .

The physicist nodded, motioned to the oth-
ers and hurried out. . . .

B UT for all their high hopes they found
upon returning to the home world that
there was a barrier which even the science
of Cal Anrax could not break down. Indeed

they suspected at first as they flew over the
dying, almost water-denuded planet — a few
hastily gouged canals visible to eke out the
dwindling supply — as they beheld the shat-
tered cities and deserted airways — that those
in the space cruisers had been the last of the
race, until in one isolated spot they saw a
queer semitransparent hemisphere partly
above ground. In fact the spot had at one
time marked the entrance to extensive min-
eral mines.

Believing the composition was glass, and
in no mood for trifling, Cal drove his leading
space flyer straight at the dome — but instead
of going through it he severely damaged the
forward rocket tubes instead. The whole
machine rebounded violently and landed on
the rough ground below.

“What it it?” Iana demanded, as she and
the others crowded at the ports and stared
at the hemisphere intently.

“Force!” Cal answered laconically. “Some-
thing I hadn’t reckoned with.”

He peered through the dome intently.

“I think I can see men down there,” he
murmured. “But I can’t do anything about
it. Take a look.”

The others moved to his higher elevation
at the forward port and looked long and
earnestly. There were men visible, appar-
ently at a switchboard, or dotted about in
various parts of what was a kind of control
room.

“Vaxil must have taken fright after the
seas and most of the air were snatched
away,” Cal said. “We’ve seen the hasty
canals he’s had made — but they didn’t do
him much good apparently. Then he must
have used this idea to protect himself and
his surviving cronies from further wrath to
come. A force shield isn’t a vast scientific
problem, anyway, but it is a vast one to break
it down unless you know the exact electrical
formula which makes it up.”

“You mean that we can’t get at them?”
Iana asked, in obvious disappointment.
“That we can’t make them surrender this
world?”

“Just that. A journey in vain. Obviously
Vaxil and his men have closed themselves
in to be sure of safety.”

Cal Anrax paused, then smiled as though
a deeply significant thought had crossed his
mind.

“By doing this they may have saved us
the trouble of having to deal with them,” he
added. “Scientific law. We can only tell

28 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

when we make a return visit. For the mo-
ment we can do nothing but return to Vinra.”

He was the leader and the decision was
made, so the others passed no comment. He
closed the switches and, due to the faulty
rocket control forward, the machine rose in
jerks to the limits of the thin atmosphere,
began a spasmodic climb into the void.

“Trouble in those forward tubes,” Cal
said with a worried frown. “The compression
is faulty.”

“I’ll take a look at it,” lana volunteered,
and opened the main firing door.

Hardly had she done it before a terrific
explosion, the release of superheated gases,
belched forth. She never even knew what
happened.

The whole universe went out in blinding
sparks and a welter of gradually subsiding
pain. . . .

CHAPTER VII
Trip Through Space

B Y SLOW DEGREES Grant Mayson
returned to consciousness. The details
of the Council Room drifted in upon him,
and with it the realization that the others
had recovered, too, and that the girl lana
was standing a little apart, smiling at them.

“You believe now?” Her voice was quiet,
but anxious. “You have seen what hap-
pened. I died in the explosion on that space
cruiser. I remained a mind without a body,
unconscious in the infinite, until the law of
chance and your electrical apparatus brought
me accidentally back into being. The mul-
tillionth chance. Now you know — know many
things, indeed. You men of science have
wondered why Mars, my home world, is
arid and has canals, why Vinra, or Venus,
has dense clouds and yet no moon. The an-
I swer lies in the story I have told you by
, telepathy — a story which was enacted mil-
| lions of years ago.”

“Yes, we believe,” Stephen Balmore said,
in an awed voice. “It was the most wonder-
ful thing I have experienced — a tele-
pathic trip into the dim past, the study of a
: science so mighty that it staggers the imag-
ination. You other gentlemen are satisfied,
} I take it?”

Grant and the remaining four men nodded

promptly, then Grant added:

“I would suggest that one of us records the
full story for the sound tape immediately so
that these other members of the Council may
know the full details. . . For the moment,
lana, what are your intentions?”

“I want to go to Venus,” she said seriously.
“The people on that world are my own, my
race. You have not the telescopes to probe
through those clouds, and my knowledge is
not great enough to show you how to make
one. But I can show you how to build a
space flyer.”

“And would that be something!” Grant
exclaimed.

“What do you think, sir?” he asked of Bal-
more. “Is Miss lana free to act as she
chooses, and am I still in favor?”

The head scientist smiled, “I think that we
all realize that we are in the presence of
a Martian scientist from a past time. We
six are convinced. The others will be when
they know the story. Yes, Miss lana, you
are free— on my responsibility.”

He paused, a troubled look on his face.
“A problem?” the girl asked quickly.
“Yes, you might call it that. You are of
Mars — and later of Venus — that we know.
Yet you look exactly like any clever, edu-
cated woman of our own world here. In
view of the general belief of science — on this
planet anyway — that life on another world
cannot be even remotely similar to ours, it
seems odd that you should resemble us so
closely.”

“Yes, perhaps it does seem odd,” the girl
admitted, reflecting. “I can only assume that
bipeds evolve fairly similarly on worlds of
one particular system. An inhabitant of
Sirius’ system might be really different.”
“Evolution has been more than kind to
you, anyway,” Grant murmured, studying
her.

For a second she seemed to grasp the
meaning behind his words, interpreted the
look in his eyes. Then with a little smile
she turned back to Stephen Balmore.

“Do you think, doctor, that the Govern-
ment of this country would grant me the
facilities to build a space machine?”

“I don’t see why not. Apart from the
story which will be specially recorded for
the President, we are a scientific race, though
of course we are amateurs compared to you.
But we believe in scientific progress, and
for that reason I think a chance to visit
Venus, and maybe other planets, will be too

THE MULTILLIONTH CHANCE

tempting to miss. It would be a large feather
in America’s cap, too!”

“I suppose that is saying you have
enough science to carry it out.” lana smiled.
“Anyhow, I hope you will use your influence.
In the meantime, until I get definite news,
I’ll stay in my same room and work out the
exact details for a space machine, ready for
your engineers. For my information I want
only one repayment — to join my race on Vin-
ra, a race which must have grown to vast
size from the original twenty. Some of
them would have got back to the planet after
that explosion, I’m sure. In fact I believe it
only involved me.”

“I’ll do all I can,” Balmore promised. “And
you, Grant, had better come with me and
explain as well. You’ve shown a grasp of
science rather unique in connection with this
problem.”

ALMORE’S guess was right. The Presi-
dent not only agreed to the construc-
tion of a space machine, but was eager to
see the project a success. Easily he swayed
Congress to his own way of thinking and,
following his lead, the public made the girl
a heroine of science to the accompaniment
of fetes, charity bazaars, and theater appear-
ances.

There was no more struggle necessary in
order to establish her. She had arrived, was
proclaimed a genius, placed in the care of
the Scientific Association, and then given
carte blanche to exercise her skill for the
general advancement of the profession, . . .
And she did.

Under her personal supervision a space-
ship began to take shape in Pittsburgh, Grant
handling the business end under -orders from
Balmore.

Between times, with the easy generosity
of great knowledge, the girl handed over to
the State scientific secrets which to her were
trifling, but which to America — and the
world in general if America chose to be gen-
erous — meant vast improvement in every-
day life. Special drugs for illnesses, new
uses for radiant energy, weapons of defense.
They all had their origin in her brilliant, fer-
tile mind.

And the space cruiser grew, made to house
eight people — herself, Grant Mayson, Ste-
phen Balmore, and the others who had sub-
mitted to her telepathic effort. To them,
willing in the first place to believe, she had
handed the supreme reward, the realization

29

of any true scientist’s dream— travel to an-
other world.

The machine was finished early in the fol-
lowing year. Departure was in two days.
Their particular work completed, Grant
Mayson returned with the girl to the apart-
ment in New York given to her by a grateful
Government, but unlike other occasions
Grant delayed leaving her. There was not an-
others day’s work ahead to impel him home
to rest. He felt he had the chance to talk
to her at last, away from other people and
distractions.

“Iana,” he said quietly. “I’ve come to
know you pretty well in these last months.
For all your knowledge, it hasn’t made you
cold and impersonal. You’re warm — decent
— good natured, like a million other girls
who haven’t got a shred of your ability.”

“Well, thanks, Grant,” she laughed, hand-
ing him a drink from the side table but de-
clining one herself. “For a scientist as good
as you are that’s quite a speech!”

“I — I want to ask you something.” Grant
hesitated and looked at her over his glass.
“Do you think — ? Iana, I’m in love with
you!” he finished rather desperately. “I
have been ever since that day I found you
in the laboratory. I’m — I’m not a demon-
strative sort of chap, you know. Scientists
rarely are. But with you — well, now you
know.”

The girl’s face became serious as she
studied his lean, earnest features. Tall, un-
tidy as usual, he stood watching her.

“I respect that love,” she said at length.
“I really do, Grant. But there is a barrier
between us. The barrier of different worlds.
We’re as apart as the ends of the Universe.”

“I can’t believe that, Iana. I — ”

“But it’s true!” Her simple insistence
quietened him. “I have loved only one man
with all my heart, longed for the day when
we could be married. That man, as you will
have guessed, was Cal Anrax, the scientific
wizard.”

“But that happened millions of years ago!
You can’t love him now!”

“To me it was but yesterday. That is one
reason why I want to go to Venus, to see
what his genius made of the race, to see
the monuments he left behind. I might even
find a man of my own world who is a
descendant of Cal. Then — then I believe I
could be happy.”

Grant sighed and put down his empty glass.

“I’m jealous of that fellow,” he confessed.

30 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

“He was a genius, I admit, but he’s only
a memory. It makes me feel as though that
memory comes between you and me. And it’s
tough — especially loving you as much as I
do.’’

lana was silent, reflecting. Then she laid
a hand on his arm.

“It is too soon to deal with this problem,”
she said gently. “I must see Vinra first.
Please leave it at that — for my sake.”

Grant looked at her, at her lovely face so
close to his own. A struggle mirrored on
his gaunt features and passed.

“Very well, lana. For your sake.”

EW YORKERS in particular and the
world in general gave the space flyer a
terrific send-off. The journey began at ten
in the morning, and the departure was traced
by television transmitters, newsreel cameras,
reporters, and every other conceivable means
of transferring on-the-spot news to those
who were not present.

Then, to the six in the control room —
except to lana who was accustomed to space
travel — the wonder of the journey was the
prime factor. Balmore, scientist ever, spent
hours checking notes first hand on informa-
tion he had formerly gathered through
telescopes. The other experts each absorbed
the grandeur in his own way.

Grant felt that he ought to do the same,
yet for a reason which puzzled him the
journey was not a thrill. He was conscious,
somehow, of the rather ridiculous feeling
that he had done it before somewhere. Per-
haps through the telepathic dream of lana.
But then, so had the other scientists, and
yet they were fascinated now.

Finally he settled down to a kind of routine
interest in events, watching Earth shrink and
Venus expand in all her argent, cloud-girt
splendor. The girl herself handled the con-
trolling of the machine, resting at given
intervals and using the robot pilot to take
over.

So, finally, the gulf was covered and they
nosed at last into the density surrounding
the planet. Anxiety and earnest watchful-
ness settled on the party as the girl eased
the machine down through the impenetrable
vapors. Upon her features was an expression
of worried interest, the look of a person
expecting a dream to come true.

The air screeched outside the thick hull
and the clouds seemed to go down for miles.
At last they burst below them, to find them-

selves no more than a thousand feet above
ground. Instantly lana leveled the machine
out, looked below in puzzled wonder.

There was no sign of civilization, or any-
thing remotely like it. Only jungle — vast,
crawling jungle — a smothering, steamy im-
mensity of trees, vines, dense verdure, im-
penetrable beyond belief.

“I don’t understand,” lana whispered, fly-
ing the machine on in a straight line. “There
must be some sign!”

So she declared over and over again, but
her belief was not realized. They completed
a circuit of the planet from east to west, and
then from north to south, without finding
anything but vegetation or deep azure sea.

Or, at least, almost without finding any-
thing.

They came more by accident than any-
thing else upon five eroded stone columns in
one clear patch of jungle, and here lana
decided to bring the machine down.

Through the windows they could see they
were on what had once been a terrace, but all
formation of it beyond crumbled tiers and
cracked colonnades had vanished befoi-e the
snaking, eroding plant life.

“Well, lana?” Stephen Balmore asked at
last, disappointed.

“I don’t know,” she muttered, getting up
and rubbing her head in a puzzled manner.
“Not a trace nor sign of my race, and I just
can’t imagine why not. I expected a com-
pletely civilized world, and instead we find
this!”

"We’d better go out and see what there
is,” Grant suggested. “Come on.”

CHAPTER VIII
Dead Worlds

C HANGING into tropical attire, they
armed themselves with protonic guns
and provisions, then stepped out through the
airlock into the jungle. Silence, crushing
heat, eternal vegetation which seemed to
grow and die even as they moved. There
was nothing else. No sign of anything that
lived or breathed.

For over two hours they searched assidu-
ously amidst the ruins of the once beauti-
ful, gigantic structure without finding a sin-
gle sign, inscription, or clue to help them.

[ Turn to page 32]

FOSS IS A CINCH
IF NOTHING J
aE HAPPENS SM

•ISTER, YOU’RE/ YES, BUT K,
JUST PLAIN [THERE GOES THE
■PLUCKY .'I RACE FORME,

.TOUGH BREAK ) SIS, MEET HAL FOSS.
} FOR BOTH d HE LOST THE RACE,,
OF US, B0B/\RISKIN6 HIS LIFE <§
Wu-n ry * KjO SAVE MINEjB

Q&Q'f/’ff'H/

f IT'S HIM OR
\THE FENCE/

SAY, MY WHISKERS
CAME OFF. LIKE /
MAGIC. THAT ^
.BLADE’S PLENTY,
XKEEN /-s/

CONGRATULATIONS,
TOM. I COULDN’T,
‘ LOSE TO A S
BETTER MAN^

I’M THROUGH]
> WITH MY 4
RAZOR, HAL. '
.YOU’RE next.

f I ALWAYS USE Y«
THIN GILLETTES.Ii
> THEY MAKE W
\SHAV1NG A CINCH/;:

A TURBO-UET |g§
AUTO ENGINE?®
,wow/ COUNT

^jsMEIN/^^
M jTP^vm^mTa
§1 li\NOW I’LL SEE
IPLLhiAA OFTEN,

r l NEED A PARTNER
AND DAD WILL PUT
VIP THE CAPITAL^

YOU GET SUCK-LOOKING, REFRESHING
SHAVES EVERY TIME WITH THIN
GILLETTES. THEY’RE THE KEENEST.
LONGEST- LASTING BLADES IN THE/
LOW-PRICED FIELO. ALSO, THEY FIT >
YOUR GILLETTE RAZOR PRECISELY AND
SAFEGUARD YOU FROM THE DISCOMFORT^
AND IRRITATION CAUSED
BY MISFIT BLADES. ASK .A I (

.FOR THIN GILLETTES / \\ J

32 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

At last I ana gave a despondent sigh, and sat
down on an eroded column.

“Sheer waste of time!” she confessed. “My
race has utterly vanished. . . .”

“Is it possible that they went under-
ground?” Grant Mayson reflected, frowning.
“Perhaps the vegetation proved too much
for them and so they went below?”

The girl gave him a quick look, then the
hope born in her eyes faded.

“It would have taken more than vegeta-
tion to defeat Cal Anrax,” she said seriously.
“There must be some other explanation.
Perhaps we have the wrong place.”

She got to her feet suddenly, struck by a
thought.

“Of course!” she cried. “They probably
returned to the home world! Cal said we
would go back, just before I was killed.
Perhaps he did that. Maybe they found a
way through the force globe Vaxil and his
scientists created.”

“We can but look,” Grant acknowledged.
“You agree, sir?”

“By all means,” Balmore nodded. “Mars
it is!”

Happier at the thought that she had per-
haps found a solution, Iana led' the way back
to the ship. Within ten minutes they were
hurtling upwards again over the jungle,
through the clouds, and out once more into
the depths of space.

Most silent of all as the journey got under
way was Grant. He sat in the small chair
by the forward port, a look of profound
preoccupation on his features.

“What is it, Grant?” the girl asked him
presently. “Something seems to be worry-
ing you?”

“Hardly a worry — a puzzle,” he said,
glancing up at her. “While I was on Venus,
on that broken down terrace, I felt that I
knew exactly where your race went, and
yet I couldn’t quite place it. Is it possible
that there were mental presences there af-
fecting my mind? Trying to tell me some-
thing?”

The girl reflected.

“If that were so, Grant, why didn’t all of
: us sense it? Myself especially? I certainly
didn’t notice anything.”

Grant got to his feet and sighed.

“Something queer about all this.” He
rubbed his jaw pensively. “I feel like a man
grasping at shadows, and yet who really
knows the answer. Like a man who has
had amnesia and who finds memory coming

back to him at the sight of familiar signs
and places.”

The group in the control room was silent
for a moment, puzzled. Then an extraordi-
nary expression passed over Iana’s face. She
seemed to come to the very verge of saying
something, but it died again into moody
speculation, even unbelief.

“I suppose that space travel affects every-
body in a different way,” Balmore said, fish-
ing for solutions. “It must affect the brain
strangely. That’s all that’s the matter with
you, Grant.”

“I guess so.” Mayson nodded and smiled.
“Forget it! I’d better nail myself down
henceforth to helping plot the course.”

And he did, tirelessly, but Iana noticed
that there were times when his eyes were
looking at the cosmicharts unseeingly, when
his thoughts were obviously millions of miles
away. . . .

Mars, deserted, red, sprawling with its
rusty red deserts, loomed up as a landscape
after some hundred and thirty hours of
steady travel.

It was late in the Martian afternoon when
they came within a thousand feet of the sur-
face, the pale sun hanging out of the color-
less blue sky.

“If ever a world died, this one did,” Iana
murmured sadly, piloting the machine on-
wards steadily across the waste. “Can you
picture it as a world of oceans, landscape,
mountains, soft winds and warm sunshine?
Wiped out, because Vaxil wanted it all for
himself!”

“Do you blame Cal Anrax for what he
did?” Grant asked, his gaze on the endless
waste of dead sea bottom below.

“I never did and never shall. Cal did
right. He knew all our own people had died,
that only Vaxil and his Easterners were in
possession of the planet. It was just retri-
bution. But it looks as though my guess was
wrong.” The girl sighed. “None of my peo-
ple came here from Vinra, obviously — unless
they have domiciled underground.”

S HE flew the machine steadily onwards
for over an hour, her eyes fixed on the
unvarying sameness of the landscape. At
last she gave a little cry and pointed ahead.
“There! See that? Like glass?”

Grant, Balmore, and the scientists peered
ahead at a shining half moon projecting
from the red sand.

“That’s the force shield,” the girl ex-

THE MULTILLIONTH CHANCE 33

plained excitedly. “The one we found."

“Still there, after all these millions of
years?” Balmore asked incredulously. “How
can that be?”

“Why not? The generating force would
be derived from the sun, and an energy un-
der certain conditions can remain fixed for
millenia. Yes, I’m sure that’s it.”

Clearly the girl was too eager with dis-
covery to bother deeply about the scientific
issues She maneuvered the ship downwards
in a sweeping curve and they came to rest
not a quarter of a mile from the dome.

To clamber outside into the thin, cool air,
stumble in the loose sand and light gravity
towards it, was but the work of another
ten minutes. Then they stood in silence
peering through what was apparently clear
glass — a fact disproved when Balmore
touched it curiously then jerked his hand
back with numbed fingertips.

“Force is right!” he breathed. “And look
at those men down there! Are those your
people, Iana?” he asked wonderingly.

A fixed expression had come to the girl’s
face. She leaned as near the dome as she
dared, staring down with the others into
some kind of control room. Below was a
group of men, oddly attired, standing or sit-
ting before the switchboards of machines.
With the passing moments they showed not
the least trace of motion. They might have
been carved in stone.

“Well?” Grant asked finally. “What goes
on?”

“Why is it all such a problem?” the girl
asked helplessly. “One of those men down
there is Yaxil — the second from the left
there. The others are his immediate hench-
men, members of the very Council which
sent Cal, and me, and the others away as
Outcasts. Millions of years have passed, and
yet these men still stand just as they were
on the very day Cal and I looked through
this dome together! Why? I just don’t un-
derstand it!”

There was a long, perplexed silence in the
Martian quietness. Then Grant drew a deep
breath.

“I believe I understand,” he said slowly.
“Look, Iana, didn’t Cal say that they had
perhaps signed their own death warrants?”

“Why yes! He did say something like that.”

“And he was right!” Grant looked around
keenly at the interested faces. “These men
sealed themselves up completely in a globe
of force — maybe they did the same for their

whole underground setup with its people —
to save themselves from further attack or
disaster from possible repetition of sea and
air snatching.”

Grant drew a deep breath.

“ Completely sealed themselves up, mind
you!” he repeated. “Now, to refer back to
one of our own oldest scientific laws on
Earth, we remember this, and I’m quoting
now from a statement once made by Sir
James Jeans in his Mysterious Universe: “To
achieve thermo-dynamic equilibrium, in
which no increase in disorganization can oc-
cur, in which entropy is constant and com-
plete, we must isolate some region where no
energy can either enter or leave! Under
these isolated conditions the energy will be
bandied back from matter to barrier and
back again, and the shuffling — the only pos-
sible limit of energy interchanges — is soon
complete. . . .’ That’s the quotation, as well
as I remember it.”

The girl pondered.

“You mean they just shut themselves up
in a living tomb?”

“I do, yes. Good scientists though they
were, they were too anxious for their safety
to consider the deeper issues. They sealed
themselves inside a globe of energy and in
a very short time the energy reached its
maximum number of changes. Entropy was
complete. They all became fixed as they
were, incapable of movement, neither dead
nor alive. They achieved a condition, unwit-
tingly, which parts of the Universe have al-
ready achieved — -complete thermodynamical
equilibrium.”

“That, of course, is more than possible,”
Balmore admitted, “though I am not at all
sure how you arrived at the solution so
easily.

“If we wish to awaken them, doesn’t it
suggest another scientific law?”

RANT MAYSON repressed a shudder
and slowly shook his head.

“We can never awaken them,” he an-
swered quietly. “All we can try to do is
find a way through this energy barrier. Once
we do that, and thereby produce new atomic
energies in a state of perfect equilibrium,
we start entropy going again also. Every-
thing down here will pass away into dust
and a new state will begin — the state we will
have started. It will mean that we have
introduced a random element. . .

He paused and turned.

84 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

“After all, Iana, it’s up to you. This is
your world, not ours.”

She was silent, gazing down pensively into
the depths.

“You’ve guessed right, Grant; I know you
have,” she said at last.

“To enter through this dome would do
no good. Down here there must be a race
transfixed by the law of absolute entropy,
the race which followed Vaxil millions of
years ago and which has been held in scien-
tific thrall ever since.

“Let it stay that way — a kind of monument
to scientific greed— and error! It would bene-
fit none of us to look below. Everything
would just disappear, and this world is dead
anyway. Hollow caverns are of no use to
anybody. I would not find my own people,
the race left on Vinra, so of what use is it?”
She turned away despondently and Grant
fancied he caught the glint of tears in her
gray eyes. In three strides he caught up with
her as they moved back towards the space
cruiser.

“Your people went somewhere,” he said
seriously. “They would surely have left
some kind of record. If we went back to
Venus we might yet find some trace.”

She gave him a long, steady look. “You
really believe that?”

“I definitely do! In fact, I think that if
we returned to the same spot on Venus I
might be able to find the answer myself. I
am sure I nearly did it last time, though I
don’t know why. This time might cinch it.”
Her eyes took on that curious, wondering
light he had seen once before in the space
machine when he had told her of his strange
mental recollections. She gave a quick nod.
“All right, we can but try it.”

She hurried her pace toward the vessel in
sudden eagerness.

CHAPTER IX
United at Last

S URE ENOUGH, once the return journey
to Venus had been accomplished, and
that solitary clearing with the broken col-
onnades had been found again, Grant felt
once more the same curious sensation as
before steal over him.

“Makes me feel rather like a water di-

viner.” He was grinning, as the girl and
the scientists watched him prowl about slow-
ly. “I’ve got that ‘I’ve been here before’
feeling mighty strong, such as many of us
experience sometimes. There ought to be
something here which — ”

He broke off, made a sudden dive forward
across the terrace as his eye caught sight of
a curious bronzed panel forming the front
facing of one of the terrace tiers. He dropped
on his knees, fingered it urgently, pressing
on the ornamentations.

Abruptly, with a faint click, it shot to one
side and left a dark, drafty aperture.

“But — but how did you know?” Balmore
whispered, dumbfounded.

“I just did,” Grant replied. “Come on.”

He flashed his torch beam through the
opening, pointed to ancient bronze steps
leading downwards and in another moment
he had scrambled into the opening and on to
them.

He helped Iana through after him, and
the scientists followed eagerly.

When they had all gained the steps they
stood looking round a monstrous metal-lined
inner cavern, all traces of decay and mildew
kept at bay by the constitution of the metal.

Dimly, at the limit of the torch beam, a
floor could be discerned.

“Some kind of vault,” Iana said, her voice
echoing. “And smu found it, Grant! I just
can’t believe it.”

He began to descend the steps slowly.
When he reached the bottom he stopped
abruptly and slowly rubbed his forehead.

“That weird feeling of having been here
before,” he whispered. “I never felt it so
strongly. There’s got to be a reason for it!
Just a moment. Let me try something out
to see if it explains it.”

The other travelers waited in tense inter-
est as he went forward, his torch beam flash-
ing about the emptiness until it alighted on
a massive metal table. On it were two bronze-
like boxes with highly complicated combina-
tion locks.

He stood looking at them, his face drawn
and pale with vast mental effort. Silently
the others stole forward and watched him.
There was not a sound save their tense
breathing. •

Then, as though he were alone, Grant
reached forward rather nervously to the
first box and began to move the combination
dial with his fingers.

Left — right — left again. Until at length it

THE MULTILLIONTH CHANCE 35

clicked under his fingers and the lid sprang
open.

Within was metal foiling. He stood look-
ing at it, apparently too dazed to seize hold
of it. Iana and Balmore could see a mass
of hieroglyphics — but to Iana they evidently
meant something for she dashed forward and,
whipping the foiling up, trained her torch on
it.

“Grant!” She was suddenly breathless.
“Can you — read this?”

He shook his head bemusedly.

“But I can!” she cried. “It’s in my own
language.” She bent closer.

“It’s a record of what happened!” she
went on urgently, her eyes going down the
closely written lines. “And Cal wrote it!”
she finished, studying the signature.

“What does it say?” Balmore demanded,
his eyes shining.

“There’s a lot of it. . . . He describes sev-
eral important inventions. . . Yes, yes, here
he pays a tribute to my memory! He is very
unhappy without me, he says. But — here
we are! He writes: ‘To continue to live on
this world of Vinra is impossible. Below,
the material is too spongy to permit of build-
ing a complete city, and above we have pro-
duced a too fruitful landscape! The water and
air stolen from our home world brought
with it spores and seeds which have settled
and grown. Here, with violent sunshine and
heat for seven hundred twenty hours,
changed conditions, and extreme humidity
which prevents any cold during the night,
amazing growth has taken place.

“ ‘For all our efforts we are powerless to
prevent the slow strangulation of our cities
by plant life. Departure is the only answer.
I am writing this record prior to our evacua-
tion and shall place it in a sealed vault
which I know will be proof against devouring
vegetation. A second box beside this one
for the record will contain all the prints for
the inventions I have named. Some day
somebody may come here and make use of
these ideas. We have decided to go to the
third world. Young and deadly perhaps, but
tractable and not consumed with avid life.
I think we may master it — ’ ”

T HE girl stopped, her eyes wide.

“Earth!” Stephen Balmore ejaculated.
“The third world! They went to Earth at
the finish!”

“The very world to which chance brought
me!” Iana looked about her with shining

eyes. “Oh, now there is so much that I
understand! So very much! You are of my
race! I belong to you! Do you not realize
that it explains away the mystery of how
life began on your planet? Explains too
why the other worlds are empty? Grant, do
you begin to understand, too?”

“Yes,” he said slowly, “I think I do. We
have come to the end of the odyssey. The
complication of space and time has unfolded
to us in the strangest possible way. And
yet — why not? Universes go in circles;
microcosm and macrocosm are in circles; or-
bits are in circles; life itself, even history, i
Above all things I realize one amazing fact —

I am Cal Anrax!”

“But that’s impossible!” Balmore ejacu-
lated.

“I tell you I must be, doctor!” There was
sudden ringing authority in Grant’s voice.
“I dared to think of the possibility for the
first time when I felt myself drawn irresist-
ibly towards Iana, when I was so jealous of'
the long forgotten Cal Anrax because of his i
scientific knowledge. Then I remembered
things. Of all people, I alone understood Iana
and her efforts with a formula! No person
without some inherited connection could
have grasped it so readily — ”

“And there were other things,” Iana hur-
ried on, catching Grant’s arm. “The wayj
you kept saying over and over to me that
you felt as if space were familiar to you, that ,
you were not making the journey for thei
first time. That was when I too first dared 1
to hope that you might be an unthinkably
distant successor to my beloved Cal. But
I had to be sure first.”

“There can be no doubt of it now,” Grant 1
said quietly. “I finished the theory of ther-
modynamic equilibrium which Cal had in'
mind for Vaxil and his minions. Only a,
continuation of ideas through one individual
mind could have prompted that. And, too,
I knew, with everything in me, that some-
where — in a remote past — I had concealed
records of scientific discoveries. Standing
in that terrace outside memory came float-
ing to me — the memory of a secret vault, a
special slide — seen as though in a dream.”

“And none but the mind of Cal could have
understood the combination of the lock,” the
girl finished. “See this lock for yourself. It
is in our own symbols, not Earthian. Yet
you understand them, Grant! Oh, Grant,
this is more wonderful than I ever dared
hope! I lost my race, only to find it around

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

36

me on that wonderful world of Earth! I
lost Cal, too, only to discover that he lives
on, that his scientific spirit lives again
through you. Never since my rebirth have
I been so happy. You are Cal, yes, in a dif-
ferent fleshly form. And — and yet, not so
very different, either. You remember I
once told you how much you reminded me of
him?”

“My science is not quite so good as his
was.” Grant was smiling now. “Maybe the
skill became blunted by the interval of time.
Maybe it was even lost altogether in the
struggle to master the vagaries of Earth in
the early days. Maybe — lots of things.”

“Do you imply from all this that you are
Cal — reincarnated?” Balmore asked slowly.

“Certainly I do. So excellent a scientist
as you must admit that reincarnation is not
only possible, but logical. It happened in
Iana’s case that an identical reincarnation
took place because the self-same atomic
configuration came into being twice over,
by sheer chance.

“In my ease a majority of atoms and elec-
trons forming the original Cal regathered in
the normal course of evolution over millions
of years. I don’t doubt that I have lived
hundreds of lives in between, all in some
form or other reminiscent of Cal.

“In some of those lives I was doubtless a
scientist and in other perhaps not. But the
entity of Cal persisted through all the phases
because he, so far as we are concerned, was
Idle original pattern. Now I am here again as
Grant Mayson in Nineteen Sixty-Four, en-
tirely unaware of my past existence on an-
other world until I visited that world and the
telepathie memories started by Iana awak-
ened me to the truth.”

“Correct,” Iana said gently, clinging to his

arm. “So utterly, beautifully correct! I
Pcnow it, as a woman, as one who loved Cal
more than anything in life — and I don’t need
cold science to prove it.”

“Fate or coincidence has been unusually
lavish,” Stephen Balmore said reflectively.

A LTHOUGH Mayson answered Balmore,
it was Iana on whom he kept his gaze.
“Perhaps,” Grant said. “Or maybe there
is a destiny that shapes things after all, that
the deepest wishes of our heart do mature in
the end, no matter how many cycles pass
between. Time, after all, is only an arbitrary
measurement which is made by mathema-
ticians so as to enable them to decide what
happens in space.”

He broke off, smiling, and caught the girl
to him.

“Iana,” he said gently, “I shall not be the
ruler of the world when we get back to
Earth— not even of half of it. We shall try
and colonize this world and Mars, of course,
and we will have a hand in it. But other-
wise I’ll just be Grant Mayson, scientist,
maybe a bit better than most because of
things I have learned and the secrets you
have bestowed. But don’t expect greatness.
You’ll be purely and simply Mrs. Mayson,
wife of a young physicist.”

“Legally, yes,” she smiled. “In my imag-
ination you will always be something in-
finitely greater than that. Not that I shall
worry. I shall go back to Earth knowing
that my own folk are around me, that they
are of my flesh and blood after all, that the
secrets I have handed on — and those con-
tained in this other box here — are only
treasures to which they are entitled. I am
no longer a girl of Mars, or Venus, Grant —
I’m a woman of Earth!”

THE VALLEY OF WALKING EARTH!

PHYSICIST BRUCE JACKLYN discovered it— the place where the
animal, vegetable and mineral kingdoms all blended into one new
breathing, thinking form of life. Then years later, four scientists came to
Brazil to find radium — and hit upon the strange paradise! Their exciting
adventures and the desperate perils they faced are told in I AM EDEN,
next issue’s great complete novel by Henry Kuttner. It’s a science fiction
masterpiece you will long remember — look forward to it !

S

"1 may look like a human being, but l*m not,” said the facfii

THE GOOD EGG

By ROSS ROCKLYNNE

Square Root the little imp from outer space, gets the
number of some racketeers, and does some fast figuring!

O F THE egg, little can be said, or much
can be said, according to the way
you look at it. For the egg either
existed or did not exist.

Doc Ferris got a big kick out of the egg.
He held it in his fat hand and his laughter
came out richly.

“See?” he chortled, “Hold it this way
and it sorta runs together at the curves, turn
it sharp and you get a rectangular egg. See?

Then it disappears. Ho! Good trick, eh?” ,
Bernice was bored and showed no interest ;
in her father’s sleight-of-hand, which had
figured in company entertainment as long
as she could remember. In a way, that was
all to the good, for she had successfully
escaped the chilling experiences which many
little children go through. Never before
house guests had she been forced to recite
such cruel nursery rhymes as the ones about
37

38 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

Jack and Jill, and Humpty Dumpty, and
four-and-twenty blackbirds undergoing the
Jap-like torture of being baked in a pie.

On the other hand, it was pretty much to
the bad. Being part of her father’s stage-
setting for prestidigitation, her illusions
crashed about her at an early age. Now that
she was grown she didn’t believe in anything.

Bernice yawned. She sent to her boy-
friend a veiled command. Hugh Grant
jumped up like a shot, scraping his chair
noisily back from the dinner table. He had
broad shoulders, a sandy complexion and a
brush hair-cut. His gray eyes were mild. He
had just been discharged from the Army and
he was in civilian clothes.

His eyes were wide on the disappearing
egg, but Bernice’s signal had reacted auto-
matically on his brain. Though he didn’t want
to leave just yet, he was pretty much Ber-
nice’s slave.

“Sorry, Pop,” Bernice said, demurely sure
of herself. “We’ll be running.”

A few moments later, she was snuggling
up to Hugh in his car. It was some minutes
before his mind could struggle back to its
normally inquisitive channels.

“Pooh,” she sniffed in answer to his ques-
tion. “Don’t worry about a silly old egg. Put
your arm around me.”

“It was amazing though,” he murmured
into her hair while the car somehow got
along with the meager assistance of one
hand and one eye.

“Nothing amazing about it, dearie. Dad’s
full of corny riddles like that. Kiss me.”
“The car might run into something.”

“Kiss me anyway,” Bernice said.

On the way back that night, Bernice sud-
denly became concerned with Hugh’s future.

“Hugh, you haven’t found a job yet, have
you?” she said. “Well, don’t accept any of-
fers. I think I’m going to be able to swing
something for you through — a business
friend of mine.”

H UGH smiled. He wouldn’t hold his
breath waiting for Bernice to find him
a job. She had a remarkable flair for — well,
for exaggeration.

He dismissed her remark from his mind.
Doc Ferris was still up, reading a book on
magic. He looked old and querulous and
grumpy, but Hugh wanted to talk to him.
Bernice kept on throwing out hints for Hugh
to run along home, but Hugh ignored them.
Finally Bernice yawned and announced sar-

castically that she was going to bed so her
company could depart. She went up the
stairs.

Hugh sat nervously on the edge of his
chair and cleared his throat.

“About that egg, sir.”

“Eh?” Ferris fumbled with his glasses.
“Oh, yes, the egg. What about the egg,
young man?”

“That was a mighty good trick, sir.”

“Just average, my boy. Just average.”

“Could you do the same trick with the
same egg, sir?”

Doc Ferris sat quite still for a moment. He
was falling asleep. Then he jerked, his lower
jaw clamping shut.

“Of course I could do the same trick with
the same egg or any other egg. But I’m not
going to. Er, good night, young man.”

Hugh stood up. He felt desperate. He
couldn’t get the egg off his mind. And he
knew the Ferrises had bacon and eggs every
morning for breakfast — if they could find
any bacon.

“You mean it’s just like any other egg?
Like the ones you’d keep in the refrigerator,
for instance?”

Doc Ferris’ head went drowsily up and
down. Hugh said nothing more. He waited
until the old man fell asleep. His heart was
pounding as he tiptoed softly into the hall,
then went swiftly toward the kitchen. He
was about to commit a crime.

He was going to steal an egg.

In the kitchen, Hugh didn’t find the re-
markable egg, at first. He found two dozen
eggs in cartons, none of which showed any
remarkable characteristics. He turned them
this way and that. He put them through their
paces. He did everything but stand on his
head to make the eggs turn rectangular and
then disappear.

He was chagrined. Then he saw another
egg, one he had failed to take from the re-
frigerator.

It was right in plain sight, near the frost-
coated refrigerator coils. It wi.s a beautiful
egg. A perfect egg. Its shell was translucent.
Around it danced wend little motes of light.

Hugh picked it up breathlessly and, not-
withstanding its proximity to the freezing
coils, it was warm to the touch. Slowly he
revolved the egg on its long axis. The egg
disappeared.

Hugh took the egg back to his apartment,
never dreaming that some day it might hatch.

He didn’t tell Doc Ferris he had taken the

39

THE GOOD EGG

egg. He didn’t tell Doc Ferris that for an
hour after he found the egg, he had com-
pletely forgotten himself and had sat there
in the kitchen playing with the egg, watching
it turn into a cornered object, then sort of
sliding away out of sight into a strange com-
partment of space.

It would slide away, but Hugh could still
feel it between his two fingers.

Then he would turn the egg and it would
come back.

After he took the egg to his apartment and
stowed it away in the refrigerator, he didn’t
see Bernice for two days. One morning, as-
toundingly, she called him up. Called up him,
Hugh Grant! He felt a delicious tingle at the
sound of her honeyed voice. He was in love
with Bernice and he knew he always would
be. He liked her impertinence — because he
could never be impertinent. He liked her
boldness and her sneers — because he was not
bold and never sneered at anything. He liked
her cynicism — because he was naive.

Yet if he had not been naive, he would
have laughed off Doc Ferris’ exhibition with
the egg.

“Darling, we’re going to the Club Spanish
tonight!” Bernice Ferris said.

“Are we?” he said huskily.

“Oh, Hugh!” She was excited. “You re-
member I told you I might be able to open
up a wonderful business opportunity for
you? Well, Mr. Morrow is going to be at the
Club Spanish tonight, and he wants to meet
you. You can pick me up at nine.”

He hung up, giddy with the crooning in-
toxication of her voice, but at the same time
he was doing mental arithmetic which in-
volved dollars and cents. His cash reserve c
couldn’t compete with Bernice’s lack of emo-'
tion where money was concerned.

When Bernice came tripping down the
stairs, he made polite inquiries about her fa-
ther. Her lively face froze over.

“Let’s don’t discuss unpleasant subjects,
Hugh, please.”

“Unpleasant?”

“You know what I mean,” she said crossly.
“Dad must be in his dotage. He’s been worse
these last couple of days. Yesterday I caught
him on the phone ordering fifteen crates of
Grade-A large-size eggs. Luckily I stopped
him.”

A T THIS, Hugh’s heart sank. He felt his
first twinge of conscience. Above Ber-
nice’s protests, he looked for Ferris and

found him in the kitchen.

Ferris tried to hide what he was doing. All
he accomplished was to drop several eggs in
squashy messes on the checkered floor as he
was trying to get them out of sight into the
refrigerator. Papa Ferris looked down at the
yellow puddles, and sniffled. Two big tears
ran down his face. He choked up.

“It’s gone!” he sobbed, “It’s gone!”

Hugh felt better about his theft of the re-
markable egg by the time they reached the
Club Spanish. Bernice saw to that. He
emerged from the car with an accelerated
blood-stream and mussed-up hair. He had
told Bernice he loved her, and she had told
him she loved him too.

At the back of his head lurked a nagging
distrust of her sudden ardor, but for his
peace of mind he was willing to let it stand.

Later in the evening, Bernice jumped ex-
citedly from her chair.

“Mr. Morrow! Mr. Morrow!”

A man was just coming into the night club.
He smiled and made his way toward their
table. Mr. Morrow was handsome, but not
offensively so. He was a couple years older
than Hugh, but the chief difference between
him and Hugh was the difference between a
polished and an unpolished shoe. Everything
about Morrow was in place, and Hugh sus-
pected that if there were a spot of lint on one
cuff he would find its mate on the other cuff.
Yet Morrow was virile, and Hugh decided to
like him. He shook hands firmly.

After quite a bit of chit-chat, terminated
by the arrival of Morrow’s drink, Morrow lost
his quick smile and fixed dark eyes on Hugh.

“I told Ber — that is, Miss Ferris, that I’d
be here this evening and that I’d be glad to
discuss a business proposition with you,”
Morrow said. “I understand you were with a
cavalry outfit before your medical dis-
charge?”

“Well, yes. I saw some action in the Libyan
desert and, later on, I fought in Italy.”

“Of course. The important thing is that
you understand horse equipment. Saddles
and such. Mr. Grant, I’m a business hnan. I
own a small, fairly profitable saddle and
harness manufacturing establishment. Or
rather, it was profitable until I found myself
without essential materials. I didn’t have a
Government contract, and hence could get no
priority. Now I’ve been left high and dry.
That’s where you can help me. And in ex-
change, I offer you a partnership.”

“Wait a minute. You’re going too fast.

40 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

How can I help you?”

“First, I need an associate who under-
stands horses and horse equipment. Second,
you’re a discharged veteran and, as such,
can go before a War Priority Board and se-
cure a priority for the four tons of cured
leather I need to keep me in business. You
understand now?”

Hugh was not normally suspicious, but he
felt doubtful. “That doesn’t sound legal,
somehow.”

Morrow stood up, his eyes genial.

“Mr. Grant, I like a forthright person. I
want you to think it over, though. As for the
legality of the question, let the WPB decide
that. You’re setting yourself up in business
as my partner. As a returned veteran, you
have a legal right to a priority on essential
materials. However, I’ll be here most of the
evening, and if you agree you can look me
up.”

He left, crossed the ballroom and sat down
: at a table with a couple of men. Hugh
; frowned. Somehow he didn’t like the looks
of those men.

Before the evening was over, however,
Bernice had talked him into making an ap-
pointment with Morrow the next day, when
temporary partnership papers would be
drawn up. Before she and Hugh could marry,
she pointed out, they had to have a recog-
nizable income. She didn’t, somehow, come
right out and say they would be married.
Oh, no. But the inference was certainly
there, and Hugh was walking on a cloud.

Meantime, back in Hugh’s apartment, there
was an egg. It was right up against the freez-
ing coils of the refrigerator, but, since there
was a current of sub-spatial energy flowing
into the egg from another place, the egg was
fairly warm.

The outward manifestations of the sub-
spatial energy were the motes of light danc-
ing around the egg’s translucent shell.

The creature inside the egg was thinking.
One thing he thought about a lot was why
he hadn’t been born yet. He had an idea
: why. Once before — so his inherited ancestral
memories told him — one of the fachi, who
I live in a dimension alien from that of Earth,

| of course, had accidentally laid an egg in a
sub-space ether-warp. That fachi had been
i purged for his thoughtlessness.

It didn’t matter that the eggs of the
j “chicken,” a fowl peculiar to the Earth-
I dimension, sometimes showed through the
ether- warp and might be mistaken for a heap

of fachi eggs. The point was that the purged
fachi should have inspected the heap of
“chicken” eggs before he made the serious
mistake of depositing his own egg thereon.

A long time later, the fachi who had
hatched from the mis-laid egg showed up,
explaining he had just been born.

T O THE fachi who listened, he evolved the
highly plausible theory that in the Earth-
dimension it took a longer time to be bom
than in the place. In the place, therefore, the
time-stream of childhood flowed swiftly
while that of older age slowed down. It was
the opposite in the Earth-dimension, where
the years of youth seemed to last forever,
and the years of age passed lamentably fast.

Notwithstanding his fine contribution to
scientific learning, the just-born fachi was
killed too. He had, naturally, been contam-
inated by human thoughts.

In view of all this, the fachi in the egg’
knew that when he was born, he could never
go back to the place.

While he lay thinking these thoughts,
Hugh Grant entered the apartment, whistling
gaily. The egg heard him and felt a convul-
sion of dread. He steeled himself for the or-
deal, but in the meantime he tried to grab
hold of Hugh’s mind and beg him to desist.
But, not having been born yet, the fachi
could read Hugh’s mind but could not com-
municate with him.

The refrigerator door was flung open. Hugh
picked up the egg, and the egg was — twisted.

It was no ordinary twist. It was a wrench,
without knowledge of the multi-dimensions.
The egg would have screamed with pain if
he could, as for minute after minute he was
tortured, parts of him sticking into one di-
mension and parts into another. But finally
Hugh put the egg back in the refrigerator
and went to bed, still whistling.

Hugh forgot about the egg during the next
few days. One day he came home and, when
he didn’t come to the kitchen, but went
straight to the telephone, the egg expe-
rienced relief. While Hugh was dialing the
number, the egg, who felt nothing but friend-
liness toward Hugh in spite of the way Hugh
had treated him, sent out some thought-
tentacles and snooped through Hugh’s mind.
The egg was dismayed by what he saw.
“Sucker!” the egg marveled.

Hugh was talking to Bernice now. “Yes,
darling, it’s all set. Morrow has the priority
slip. He’s getting the order out right now.

41

THE GOOD EGG

Well, the visual red tape, but not too much.
They routed me to the Separation Center
first off, and the GI counsellor thought it was
a good opportunity. He did put in a call to
Morrow — a formality. After that it was duck
soup.”

There was some more conversation. Hugh
asked Bernice when he could see her. Her
answer obviously disappointed Hugh. Crest-
fallen, he said he’d call her next week.

“Sucker!” the egg thought.

Three days later, the egg hatched.

At that particular moment, when the fachi
was undergoing the exhausting process of
punching his way out of the stubborn egg-
shell, Hugh Grant was drawing his converti-
ble to a stop at the curb in front of a dilapi-
dated building. Its ground-floor store-front
sported a sign which read:

MORROW HARNESS & SADDLE CO.

Hugh was discouraged. Added to the fact
that Bernice had been unable to see him
since that night at the Club Spanish, was the
equally disconcerting note in Morrow’s voice
when he had called Hugh a scant hour ago.
Morrow had told Hugh he had bad news for
him.

Hugh had gone to see him. Morrow had
risen from a scarred, cheap desk and had
shaken Hugh’s hand. He appeared glum, un-
certain.

“I guess our little business venture has
fallen through, Mr. Grant,” he said reluc-
tantly. “So it’s just as well I had you sign
only temporary partnership papers.”

“What do you mean?” Hugh snapped.
“Didn’t the order go through?”

“Like clockwork. Here, I’ll show you.”
Morrow took Hugh through a door and into
a warehouse behind the office where a strong
smell of tanned leather prevailed. Stacked
around the walls were piles and piles of
cured cowhide.

“We’ve got the leather, Grant,” Morrow
said. “Four tons of it. See?”

“Then what’s the trouble?”

Morrow didn’t look virile any more. He
seemed to be harried, worried, nervous.

“I’ve been playing the market, Grant, and
I was unfortunate enough to pick the wrong
stocks,” he said simply. “I’m busted. I have
to liquidate the business in order to break
even.”

Hugh was nettled.

“It seems to me you’re a flop as a busi-

ness man.

Morrow’s dark eyes flashed. He drew him-
self up.

“You don’t have to get huffy about it,” he
answered coldly. “I’m putting it to you
straight. After all, you ought to be mighty
glad the partnership papers didn’t have time
to go through. Then you’d be equally re-
sponsible.”

F OR a moment the two men glared at each
other. Hugh knew he was being unrea-
sonable. The real reason for his irritation was
Bernice’s refusal to see him, his inability to
understand why.

“Okay, Morrow,” he said shortly. “We’ll
let it go at that. Better luck next time.”
Without shaking hands, he went back into
the office. Just as he started through the
door, the two unsavory-looking men who
had been with Morrow at the Club Spanish
came in. They had the same sort of baby-
direct stare that Hugh had seen in movie-
gangsters. Hugh brushed past them uncivilly,
got into his car and drove away.

He spent the rest of the day tracking down
jobs. One out of every seven returned serv-
ice men, he knew, were taking advantage of
the GI Bill of Rights to set themselves up ‘in
business. But not Hugh Grant. He had de-
cided he didn’t have a good business head
anyway.

Why couldn’t he get a job in some research
laboratory? He was interested in science.
That was one reason why he had been so in-
fernally curious about Doc Ferris’ magic egg.
Come to think of it, why didn’t he do some
serious research into the whys and where-
fores of the egg’s remarkable behavior? Why,
it might even lead to something big!

Hugh no sooner got to his apartment and
opened the refrigerator door than his ruddy
face blanched. He uttered a strangled sound
and fell back against the kitchen table.

Sitting on the edge of a top refrigerator
grated shelf was a little imp. The imp was
busily tearing into an orange, meanwhile
looking at Hugh with bright scarlet eyes.

Then words seemed to form in Hugh’s
mind, just as if they were spoken words.

“Everything’s okay,” said the fachi, who
had half of his bald head buried in the or-
ange. “Relax. I just hatched from that egg
you and Doc Ferris got such- a kick out of —
and I didn’t. You remember? Doc Ferris — *
the father of the gal who twists you around
her little finger.”

42 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

Hugh made another sound, leaned against
the table.

“Nope, Hugh, I’m not a human being,” the
fachi continued. “I may look like one, sort of
a toy-size human, but I’m not one. I’m a
fachi. Fachi live in a — well, in a place. If
you horve the rapsol on miscars, you’ve got
a pretty good idea where the place is. But if
you can’t walk a straight pidder from here
to the bollin without govin doot, then it’s
no use. I’ll have to fall back on some corny
explanation like Flatland or the fourth di-
mension.”

A whole minute passed while Hugh’s blue
eyes rested on the fachi ’ s scarlet ones — scar-
let eyes just a shade lighter than his cherry-
wood colored skin.

“Why not put down the orange?” Hugh
said faintly. “Half of what you’re saying
doesn’t make sense.”

“Put down the orange? Good Heavens,
man, I was just born. I’m starving! Anyway,
the orange doesn’t interfere with my tele-
pathic powers, does it?”

“I can’t walk a straight pidder from here
to the bollin without govin doot?” Hugh
said, still clutching the table.

“That’s what it looks like,” the fachi said
glumly, at last removing the orange.

He wiped his tiny hands on his tiny thighs,
and looked much discouraged. He stood up.

“I’m plus, now, see?” he said, turned and
his outlines blurred. “See? I just walked a
straight pidder.” He turned some more, be-
came vaguer of outline. “Just now I reached
the bollin.” He disappeared. “And I didn’t
govin doot ! So I’m minus.”

He came back.

“See?”

Hugh sat down, mainly because he had to.

He spoke in a faint voice. “Okay, Square
Root.”

“What? What did you call me?”

“Square Root, The square root of minus
one is plus or minus one. You’re the Plus
Or Minus One — hence Square Root.”

The fachi mulled that over. “Okay. You
can call me Square Root.”

“That’s fine, Square Root,” Hugh said
grimly, and he stood up. There was dark col-
or under his skin. “Now. What was that you
said about Bernice Ferris?”

Square Root blanched a little.

“Huh? Why — why I just said she was —
uh — playing you for a sucker. The reason
I—”

Hugh lunged forward and grabbed Square

Root under the armpits, using a thumb and
index finger.

“Now!” he roared. “What was that?”
“Don’t!” The manikin’s voice was a tiny
lost scream of terror. He began to sob and
blubber. He began to kick and wave his
arms and scream and shed tears. “Don’t!
Don’t twist me! Don’t twist me! You miss
the bollin every time. It hurts, Hugh. Oh,
you don’t know how it hurts!”

“You slandered her,” Hugh thundered.
“Somebody you don’t even know. Go on
back to your own place, wherever that is.
Get out of my refrigerator!”

H E PUT Square Root down. Square Root
continued to weep, in growing horror.
“I can’t go back,” he whispered. “You
wouldn’t be cruel enough to send me back,
Hugh, why can’t I stay here? What have I
ever done except to get mis-laid?” Blubber-
ingly, he explained to Hugh why they’d kill
him if he ever came back. “I’ll do anything
for you, Hugh, if you let me stay. I’ll even —
I’ll even prove what I said about that slick-
chick of yours.”

“Slick-chick?” Hugh snarled.

“Slick- chick!” the fachi shouted excitedly.
“A drum-bum. A skirt-flirt. A kiss-miss.
A pass-lass. Hugh, when are you going to
realize that Bernice shoved you into Mor-
row’s scheme just because she’s in love with
Morrow?”

Hugh closed his eyes. His mind swam sick-
eningly. With smashing impact, two and two
began to add themselves. So that was why
Bernice hadn’t been anxious to see him!

The fachi sat down again, impertinently
swinging his legs which looked so much
like bumpy cherry-tree twigs.

“Y’see, Hugh, as an egg I used to relieve
my boredom by reading your mind. When
Doc Ferris had me, I’d read Bernice’s mind.
That Bernice! You should have whaled the
living daylights out of her. Then she would
have some respect for you. As it is, she just
hasn’t any respect for anybody, except her-
self and Morrow, maybe.”

“I’m going to wring her neck!” Hugh said.
“Morrow’s some kind of racketeer,” the
fachi went on. “I don’t know what his game
is exactly, but it isn’t on the level. He’s pret-
ty smart. He makes the acquaintance of
cute kids like Bernice, works the old charm,
then asks ’em if they’ve got any ex-GI boy-
friends. Nine times out of ten they have.
After that, it’s a cinch.”

THE GOOD EGG 43

“But what does he get out of it?”

“A-one priority materials.”

“Then what?”

The fachi frowned. “I don’t know.”

“I know!” Hugh said savagely. He whirled.
“Okay, Square Root, thanks. I’ll be back!”

“Hey!” The fachi sailed in a long, frantic
arc from the refrigerator. He caught onto the
edge of Hugh’s coat pocket.

“Where are you going?”

Hugh was in a towering rage. He didn’t
answer. He left the apartment, and was hard-
ly aware that Square Root levered himself
pantingly into Hugh’s side coat-pocket. He
got into his car and took off with a rush and
roar that broke the speed limit.

Patriotism! It was to laugh! While GI’s
like Hugh were fighting on battlefields and
getting a bullet in the stomach, people like
Morrow were thinking up rackets back home.

Hugh headed at furious speed for Bernice’s
home. Just as he turned into her street, her
coupe came bumping out of the driveway,
picked up speed, turned the comer in the
other direction.

Hugh started as Square Root’s thoughts
came.

“Hah! She’s probably going to meet Mor-
row, Hugh.”

“Okay,” Hugh said, grimly. “Then we’ll
kill two birds with one stone.”

Bernice led him a troublesome trail, at
first. But he finally surmised where she was
bound. As the fachi had suggested, she was
headed for Morrow’s office on Corkin Boule-
vard.

Hugh parked his car around the corner,
about a half block from an alley which he
figured led to the back of Morrow’s ware-
house. He entered the alley, moving in
shadow as much as he could. There was a
big enclosed truck the size of a moving van
backed up into the warehouse. Hugh moved
along the side of the moving van, looking
into the warehouse. Nobody was around.
Hugh stepped into the warehouse. His jaw
set.

The truck was half-loaded with leather.
The piles of leather in the warehouse were
lower. Some of it had already been trucked
away to its destination.

“Careful!” Square Root warned him, ner-
vously, as Hugh went padfooted to the office
door at the far end of the warehouse and
put his ear to the door. “This might be
dangerous.”

But Hugh heard Bernice’s voice, verv ob-

viously coming around a piece of over-
chewed gum.

“I don’t understand,” she protested. “You
can’t leave town! Not after the way you
talked about caring for me. Oh, can’t we talk
alone, without these men in here?”

Morrow sounded annoyed.

“Whatever is to be said can be said now.
Did I make you any promises? No.”

“You did!” she cried with sudden hysteria.
She stamped her foot. “You did, you did,
you did! You said we’d get married as soon
as your business got on its feet. You can
fool Hugh by that nonsense of how you’re go-
ing to liquidate, but you can’t fool me. You’re
a dirty, mean sneak of a man and I’m going
to the police and snitch!”

»

S UDDENLY she yelped. There was a
scuffle.

“Got her, boss,” a deep throaty voice said.
“It’s disgusting. Can’t trust no dame. We
better knock her out, gag her and scram.”

At that point, despite Square Root’s pro-
tests, Hugh yanked on the door and plunged
into the office.

There were three men in the office besides
Morrow. They were in dirty, leather-smell-
ing work-clothes. One was holding Bernice,
his stained hand over her purpling face. She
was kicking and gurgling.

“Let her go!” Hugh shouted.

Suddenly he suspected that his heroics
were out of place. It was the way the men
were looking at him. It was the way Morrow
was looking at him, with annoyed frustration
making dimples at the corners of his clamped
lips.

“Grant,” he said in tired tones. “You make
it hard for me. You make it plenty hard.
Why didn’t you stay home?”

“Because I’m on to your game,” Hugh
snapped tensely. “You stand to grab about
one hundred per cent profit on that four tons
of leather, through the Black Market. That’s
right, isn’t it?”

“Hey, that’s good,” Square Root said ex-
citedly. “Listen. Here’s the rest of it.” His
rapid thoughts came.

“And you work the same deal over and
over again,” Hugh said. “You set up four or
five ‘businesses,’ get each business listed in
the telephone book with the same address
but a different name. It just happened to be
the Morrow Saddle and Harness Company
when I came along. This office has outlived
its usefulness though, so you’re moving to

44 THRILLING WONDEK STORIES

another city.”

The four men looked at each other.

“That’s too bad,” Morrow answered gently.
“That’s just- too bad.”

He gave a signal. Two of the men instantly
jumped at Hugh. Hugh whirled and, using
the sides of his hands, executed a blurred se-
ries of jiu-jitsu jabs.

He knocked the wind out of one man but
another thug came up behind him and hit
him on the back of the neck with a sandbag.
Hugh fell. Through the roaring emptiness
in his skull, he could hear Bernice’s protests.

“You can’t,” she kept crying. “It isn’t
his fault. Please! Let him go and I’ll talk to
him. I’ll make him promise never to say a
word. I can wind him around my little
finger.”

Then his senses blanked out. . . .

Somebody was sitting on Hugh’s forehead
when he awoke. It was Square Root. Under
Hugh was a vibration, the smooth jouncing
rumble of truck wheels. To his nose came the
suffocating odor of tanned leather.

Square Root’s face was disconsolate. He
leaned over and looked down into Hugh’s im-
mense right eye.

“You shouldn’t have busted into Morrow’s
office like that, Hugh,” Square Root com-
plained. “They’ve got you and Bernice tied
hand and foot with baling wire. As soon as
the truck gets to the edge of town, they’re go-
ing to dump you off into the river. You and
Bernice know too much. They have to get
rid of you.”

Hugh was lying on a stack of smelly leath-
er. Behind him he could hear Bernice.

“I want to die!” she whimpered.

“You will,” Square Root said encourag-
ingly.

Bernice screamed as she saw Square Root.
Square Root took it upon himself to explain
himself in tedious detail. Hugh cut him
short.

“Don’t just sit there!” he bawled. “Do
something. Free us. Get a wire-cutter!”

Square Root paled. Suddenly he was blub-
bering with fright.

“No, Hugh,” he pleaded. “Anything but
that. Don’t you see, if I get a wire-cutter,
they’ll see me.”

Hugh glared.

“Do you want us to die? What’s so hard
about getting a wire-cutter?”

Horror was in the fachi’s scarlet eyes.

“All right, Hugh,” he groaned, “But if I
don’t come back, you’ll know I’m dead.”

Before Hugh’s eyes, Square Root walked a
straight pidder, reached the bollin, and didn’t
govin doot. Which is to say, he disappeared.

Square Root didn’t come back, and didn’t
come back. Suddenly the truck hit a down-
grade.

“The river’s only two miles from here,
Hugh,” Bernice whispered. “What are we
going to do?”

Hugh scowled at her. “Maybe you should
have thought of that in the first place.”
She wept.

“I thought it was all on the up-and-up. I
didn’t have any idea he was in the Black
Market.”

“I’ll bet!” Hugh snapped, much discour-
aged. Knowing she was telling the truth, he
relapsed into silence. Then he felt something
crawling up his leg, slowly and with diffi-
culty.

“Square Root!” Hugh cried.

T HE fachi reached Hugh’s chest. He was
covered with dried green blood. He was
suffering. He had got into one devil of a
fight with somebody.

“The fachi got me,” his telepathed words
came weakly. “I went back to the place for
a wire-cutter. My brother fachi saw me and
naturally tried to kill me. I had to kill some
of them, using the wire-cutter.” He held up
a tiny tube with a lens in the end. “This will
cut wire.”

“Square Root, you’re a good egg,” Hugh
said around the lump in his throat.

The fachi crawled to Hugh’s ankles. There
was a crackling, a burst of daggered bril-
liance. Hugh felt the wires around his ankles
give way. He rolled over and let Square
Root work on his wrists. As they came free,
he felt the truck hit the bottom of the hill
and then slow down as it took the curve to
the river bridge.

Hugh came to his- knees in the lurching
van, then to his feet. His feet were numb
lumps of bone and flesh. He fought to keep
erect. He looked around for Square Root.
The fachi was lying' on the truck bed. He
had fainted. The “wire-cutter” was still
gripped tight in his tiny red hand.

Hugh scooped him up tenderly and wob-
bled back to where Bernice lay. He pried
the wire-cutter from Square Root’s fingers.
He pressed a button on the instrument and
stifled an exclamation when a shimmering,
polka- dotted beam leapt out. If that could
cut wire, it could bum human flesh, too. It

45

THE GOOD EGG

must be a disintegrator ray. Maybe he could
get a patent on the gadget. If they got out of
this alive.

He used the instrument to free Bernice,
then thrust Square Root at her.

“Hold him,” he commanded.

There was something in his voice so stern
that she grew meek right away.

“Yes, Hugh.”

She took Square Root gingerly.

Hugh’s face was grim as he worked his
way through the aisle formed by stacks of
leather. At the front of the truck was a dirty
window, through which he found himself
looking into the driver’s compartment.

There were three men in the cab. Morrow
sat next to the window, face set and de-
termined. Hugh scowled blackly, wrapped
his handkerchief around his fist and jammed
it through the window.

As the glass crashed, the heads of the three
men jerked around.

“Grant!” Morrow yelled.

Hugh pointed the “wire-cutter” at the
driver.

“Pull over to the side of the road!” he
roared.

The driver was dumbfounded. He sud-
denly cramped the wheel, hard. Hugh reeled
sharply to one side. He pressed the button
on the tube. A crackling, radiant beam
leaped out. Hugh never saw where it hit, but
he was sure it struck the wheel, for the van
was abruptly turning over and over and
Hugh was turning with it.

Tons of cowhide promptly pinned him
down, almost suffocating him. He gasped
chokingly, fought his way free, and plunged
straight toward a gaping diamond of light.
The truck doors were warped off their
hinges. Hugh burst through, found himself
hip-deep in rank green weeds. The truck
was lying at a crazy angle. It had trundled
off into the ditch.

From the bank there was a scrambling
sound. Hugh saw Morrow, struggling up the
bank toward the road. Hugh raised the
“wire-cutter” and fired. The beam didn’t hit
Morrow. But it disintegrated the shelving
earth he was standing on. He yelled despair-
ingly and came whirling down the slope of
the ditch.

Hugh jumped on him, and Morrow turned
into a keg of dynamiting arms and legs.
Hugh, incredulously, found himself pinned
underneath. He saw Morrow’s savagely de-
termined face against the sky and Morrow’s

powerful face, come smashing down.

Hugh got his elbow in the way at the last
second. His- own fist went jabbing up. It hit
Morrow’s jaw. Morrow seemed to rise
straight into the air for a foot or so. He
looked surprised. Then he rolled off of
Hugh, trembled with a strange shuddery
motion and lay still.

Hugh now went into the truck and found
Bernice. He advanced on her, his jaw out.

“Hugh!” she screamed.

But he grabbed her, laid her across his
knee, and began to pound. After that, he
threw her aside and, with great satisfaction,
lighted a cigarette. He found Square Root
and dropped him back in his own pocket. He
walked around the truck and in the driving
compartment were Morrow’s two pals. They
were hunched up, unconscious, with bad cuts
on their heads. The wheel of the car was
just a shapeless mass of melted metal.

Well, the three of them would soon be in
the hands of the FBI. Hugh walked up the
slope of the ditch to hail a passing car. . . ,

M ANY, many hours later, Hugh escorted
Bernice ahead of him through the
door into her home. He shoved her toward
the stairs. She was discouraged, thoroughly
chastened, and she was crying. At the top of
the stairs she turned.

“Call me soon, Hugh,” she begged him.
Hugh glared at her and ignored her. He
went through the house looking for Doc
Ferris.

Square Root’s gleeful thoughts came to
Hugh. “You can twist her around your little
finger now, Hugh,” the imp said. “If you
think she’s worth it, that is.”

Hugh sighed heavily.

“I don’t know,” he muttered. Still, he re-
flected, maybe she had received the treat-
ment she needed.

Hugh found Doc Ferris in the kitchen. The
kitchen was a mess. Squashed eggs were all
over the place. Egg crates and paper egg
cartons were scattered everywhere. In the
midst of this havoc stood Doc Ferris, grin-
ning triumphantly.

“I found it!” he cried. “And I’ve been
looking for it so long! See? See? Hold it
this way and it sorta runs together at the
curves, gets rectangular- — and then disap-
pears! Ho! Good trick, eh?”

Square Root’s tragic thoughts reached
Hugh. “Hugh, this is terrible. One of the
fachi has mis-laid another egg.”

CALL HIM DEMON

By KEITH HAMMOND

Deep in his fourth dimensional lair crouches the hungry
monster — while only a band of children guards helpless
adult victims from his grim and insatiable exactions!

CHAPTER I
Wrong Uncle

A LONG time after-
ward she went
back to Los Ange-
les and drove past Grand-
mother Keaton’s house. It
hadn’t changed a great
deal, really, but what had
seemed an elegant mansion
to her childish, 1920 eyes
was now a big ramshackle
frame structure, gray with
scaling paint.

After twenty-five years the — insecurity — ■
wasn’t there any more, but there still per-
sisted a dull, irrational, remembered uneasi-
ness, an echo of the time Jane Larkin had
spent in that house when she was nine, a
thin, big-eyed girl with the Buster Brown
bangs so fashionable then.

Looking back, she could remember too
much and too little. A child’s mind is curi-
ously different from an adult’s. When Jane
went into the living room under the green
glass chandelier, on that June day in 1920,
she made a dutiful round of the family, kiss-
ing them all. Grandmother Keaton and
chilly Aunt Bessie and the four uncles. She
did not hesitate when she came to the new
uncle — who was different.

The other kids watched her with impas-
sive eyes. They knew. They saw she knew.
But they said nothing just then. Jane real-
ized she could not mention the — the trouble
— either, until they brought it up. That was
part of the silent etiquette of childhood. But
the whole house was full of uneasiness. The
adults merely sensed a trouble, something

vaguely wrong. The children, Jane saw,
knew.

Afterward they gathered in the back yard,
under the big date-palm. Jane ostentatiously
fingered her new necklace and waited. She
saw the looks the others exchanged — looks
that said, “Do you think she really noticed?”
And finally Beatrice, the oldest, suggested
hide-and-seek.

“We ought to tell her, Bee,” little Charles
said.

Beatrice kept her eyes from Charles.

“Tell her what? You’re crazy, Charles.”

Charles was insistent but vague.

“You know.”

“Keep your old secret,” Jane said. “I know
what it is, anyhow. He’s not my uncle.”

“See?” Emily crowed. “She did too see it.
I told you she’d notice.”

“It’s kind of funny,” Jane said. She knew
very well that the man in the living room
wasn’t her uncle and never had been, and
he was pretending, quite hard — hard enough
to convince the grown-ups — that he had al-
ways been here. With the clear, unprejudiced
eye of immaturity, Jane could see that he
wasn’t an ordinary grown-up. He was sort
of — empty.

“He just came,” Emily said. “About three
weeks ago.”

“Three days,” Charles corrected, trying
to help, but his temporal sense wasn’t de-
pendent on the calendar. He measured time
by the yardstick of events, and days weren’t
standard sized for him. They were longer
when he was sick or when it rained, and
far too short when he was riding the merry-
go-round at Ocean Park or playing games in
the back yard.

“It was three weeks,” Beatrice said.

“Where’d he come from?” Jane asked.

A COMPLETE FANTASTIC NOVELET

46

of 9 great swaying of flowers, of cowled figures — and she was one of them— moving between
giant blossoms toward the pale and helpless victim
m

Jane was aware

48 THEILLING WONDER STORIES

T HERE were secret glances exchanged.

“I don’t know,” Beatrice said care-
fully.

“He came out of a big round hole that
kept going around,” Charles said. “It’s like a
Christmas tree through there, all fiery.”
“Don’t tell lies,” Emily said. “Did you ever
truly see that, Charles?”

“No. Only sort of.”

“Don’t they notice?” Jane meant the
adults.

“No,” Beatrice told her, and the children
all looked toward the house and pondered
the inscrutable ways of grown-ups. “They
act like he’s always been here. Even Granny.
Aunt Bessie said he came before I did. Only
I knew that wasn’t right.”

“Three weeks,” Charles said, changing his
mind.

“He’s making them all feel sick,” Emily
said. “Aunt Bessie takes aspirins all the
time.”

Jane considered. On the face of it, the
situation seemed a little silly. An uncle
three weeks old? Perhaps the adults were
merely pretending, as they sometimes did,
with esoteric adult motives. But somehow
that didn’t seem quite the answer. Children
are never deceived very long about such
things.

Charles, now that the ice was broken and
Jane no longer an outsider, burst suddenly
into excited gabble.

“Tell her, Bee! The real secret — you know..
Can I show her the Road of Yellow Bricks?
Please, Bee? Huh?”

Then the silence again. Charles was talk-
; ng too much. Jane knew the Road of Yellow
Bricks, of course. It ran straight through Oz
from the Deadly Desert to the Emerald City.
After a long time Emily nodded.

“We got to tell her, you know,” she said.
“Only she might get scared. It’s so dark.”
“You were scared,” Bobby said. “You
cried, the first time.”

“I didn’t. Anyhow it — it’s only make be-
lieve.”

“Oh, no!” Charles said. “I reached out and
touched the crown last time.”

“It isn’t a crown,” Emily said. “It’s him.
Ruggedo.”

Jane thought of the uncle who wasn’t a
real uncle — who wasn’t a real person. “Is he
Ruggedo?” she asked.

The children understood.

“Oh, no,” Charles said. “Ruggedo fives in
the cellar. We give him meat. All red and

bluggy He likes it! Gobble, gobble!”

Beatrice looked at Jane. She nodded
toward the clubhouse, which was a piano-
box with a genuine secret lock. Then, some-
how, quite deftly, she shifted the conversa-
tion onto another subject. A game of cow-
boys-and-Indians started presently and Bob-
by, howling terribly, led the rout around
the house.

The piano-box smelled pleasantly of acacia
drifting through the cracks. Beatrice and
Jane, huddled together in the warm dim-
ness, heard diminishing Indian-cries in the
distance. Beatrice looked curiously adult just
now.

“I’m glad you came, Janie,” she said. “The
little kids don’t understand at all. It’s pretty
awful.”

“Who is he?”

Beatrice shivered. “I don’t know. I think
he fives in the cellar.” She hesitated. “You
have to get to him through the attic, though.
I’d be awfully scared if the little kids weren’t
so — so — they don’t seem to mind at all.”

“But Bee! Who is he?”

Beatrice turned her head and looked at
Jane, and it was quite evident then that she
could not or would not say. There was a bar-
rier. But because it was important, she tried.
She mentioned the Wrong Uncle.

“I think Ruggedo’s the same as him. I
know he is, really. Charles and Bobby say
so — and they know. They know better than
I do. They’re littler. . . . It’s hard to explain,
but — well, it’s sort of like the Scoodlers. Re-
member?”

The Scoodlers. That unpleasant race that
dwelt in a cavern on the road to Oz and had
the convenient ability to detach their heads
and hurl them at passersby. After a moment
the parallel became evident. A Scoodler
could have his head in one place and his
body in another, but both parts would
belong to the same Scoodler.

Of course the phantom uncle had a head
and a body both. But Jane could under-
stand vaguely the possibility of his double
nature, one of him moving deceptively
through the house, focus of a strange malaise,
and the other nameless, formless, nesting in
a cellar and waiting for red meat. . . .

“Charles knows more than any of us about
it,” Beatrice said. “He was the one who
found out we’d have to feed R-Ruggedo. We
tried different things, but it has to be raw
meat. And if we stopped — something awful
would happen. We kids found that out.”

CALL HIM DEMON 4S

It was significant that Jane didn’t ask how.
Children take their equivalent of telepathy
for granted.

“They don’t know,” Beatrice added. “We
can’t tell them.”

“No,” Jane said, and the two girls looked
at one another, caught in the terrible, help-
less problem of immaturity, the knowledge
that the mores of the adult world are too
complicated to understand, and that children
must walk warily. Adults are always right.
They are an alien race.

L UCKILY for the other children, they
had come upon the Enemy in a body.
One child alone might have had violent
hysterics. But Charles, who made the first
discoveries, was only six, still young enough
so that the process of going insane in that
particular way wasn’t possible for him. A six-
year-old is in a congenitally psychotic state;
it is normal to him.

“And they’ve been sick ever since he
came,” Beatrice said.

Jane had already seen that. A wolf may
don sheepskin and slide unobserved into a
flock, but the sheep are apt to become ner-
vous, though they can not discovver the
source of their discomfort.

It was a matter of mood. Even he showed
the same mood — uneasiness, waiting, sensing
that something was wrong and not knowing
what — but with him it was simply a matter
of camouflage. Jane could tell he didn’t
want to attract attention by varying from
the arbitrary norm he had chosen — that of
the human form. f

Jane accepted it. The uncle who was —
empty — the one in the cellar called Rug-
gedo, who had to be fed regularly on raw
meat, so that Something wouldn’t happen. . .

A masquerader, from somewhere. He had
power, and he had limitations. The obvious
evidences of his power were accepted with-
out question. Children are realists. It was not
incredible to them, for this hungry, inhuman
stranger to appear among them — for here he
was.

He came from somewhere. Out of time, or
space, or an inconceivable place. He never
had any human feelings; the children sensed
that easily. He pretended very cleverly to
be human, and he could warp the adult
minds to implant artificial memories of his
existence. The adults thought they remem-
bered him. An adult will recognize a mirage;
a child will be deceived. But conversely, an

intellectual mirage will deceive an adult, not
a child.

Ruggedo’s power couldn’t warp their
minds, for those minds were neither quite
human nor quite sane, from the adult stand-
point. Beatrice, who was oldest, was afraid.
She had the beginnings of empathy and
imagination. Little Charlie felt mostly excite-
ment. Bobbie, the smallest, had already be-
gun to be bored. . . .

Perhaps later Beatrice remembered a lit-
tle of what Ruggedo looked like, but the
others never did. For they reached him by
a very strange road, and perhaps they were
somewhat altered themselves during the time
they were with him. He accepted or rejected
food; that was all. Upstairs, the body of the
Scoodler pretended to be human, while the
Scoodler’s head lay in that little, horrible nest
he had made by warping space, so he was
invisible and intangible to anyone who didn’t
know how to find the Road of Yellow Bricks.

What was he? Without standards of com-
parison — and there are none, in this world —
he cannot be named. The children thought
of him as Ruggedo. But he was not the fat,
half-comic, inevitably frustrate Gnome King.
He was never that.

Call him demon.

As a name-symbol, it implies too much
and not enough. But it will have to do. By
the standard of maturity he was monster,
alien, super-being. But because of what he
did, and what he wanted — call him demon.

CHAPTER II
Raw, Red Meat

NE AFTERNOON, a few days later,
Beatrice hunted up Jane. “How much
money have you got, Janie?” she asked.

“Four dollars and thirty-five cents,” Jane
said, after investigation. “Dad gave me five
dollars at the station. I bought some popcorn
and — well — different things.”

“Gee, I’m glad you came when you did.”
Beatrice blew out a long breath. Tacitly it
was agreed that the prevalent socialism of
childhood clubs would apply in this more
urgent clubbing together of interests. Jane’s
small hoard was available not for any indi-
vidual among them, but for the good of the
group. “We were running out of money,”
Beatrice said. “Granny caught us taking meat

50 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

out of the icebox and we don’t dare any-
more. But we can get a lot with your
money.”

Neither of them thought of the inevitable
time when that fund would be exhausted.
Four dollars and thirty-five cents seemed
fabulous, in that era. And they needn’t buy
expensive meat, so long as it was raw and
bloody.

They walked together down the acacia-
shaded street with its occasional leaning
palms and drooping pepper-trees. They
bought two pounds of hamburger and im-
providently squandered twenty cents on
sodas.

When they got back to the house, Sunday
lethargy had set in. Uncles Simon and James
had gone out for cigars, and Uncles Lew
and Bert were reading the papers, while
Aunt Bessie crocheted. Grandmother Keaton
read Young’s Magazine, diligently seeking
spicy passages. The two girls paused behind
the beaded portieres, looking in.

“Come on, kids,” Lew said in his deep,
resonant voice. “Seen the funnies yet?
Mutt and Jeff are good. And Spark Plug — ”

“Mr. Gibson is good enough for me,”
Grandmother Keaton said. “He’s a real artist.
His people look like people.”

The door banged open and Uncle James
appeared, fat, grinning, obviously happy
from several beers. Uncle Simon paced him
like a personified conscience.

“At any rate, it’s quiet,” he said, turning
a sour glance on Jane and Beatrice. “The
children make such a rumpus sometimes
I can’t hear myself think.”

“Granny,” Beatrice asked. “Where are
the kids?”

“In the kitchen, I think, dear. They
wanted some water for something.”

“Thanks.” The two girls went out, leaving
the room filled with a growing atmosphere
of sub-threshold discomfort. The sheep were
sensing the wolf among them, but the sheep-
skin disguise was sufficient. They did not
know. . . .

The kids were in the kitchen, busily paint-
ing one section of the comics with brushes
and water. When you did that, pictures
emerged. One page of the newspaper had
been chemically treated so that moisture
would bring out the various colors, dull
pastels, but singularly glamorous, in a class
with the Japanese flowers that would bloom
in water, and the Chinese paper-shelled
almonds that held tiny prizes.

From behind her, Beatrice deftly produced
the butcher’s package.

“Two pounds,” she said. “Janie had some
money, and Merton’s was open this after-
noon. I thought we’d better. . . .”

Emily kept on painting diligently. Charles
jumped up.

“Are we going up now, huh?”

Jane was uneasy. “I don’t know if I’d
better come along. I — ”

“I don’t want to either,” Bobby said, but
that was treason. Charles said Bobby was
scared.

“I’m not. It just isn’t any fun. I want to
play something else.”

“Emily,” Beatrice said softly. “You don’t
have to go this time.”

“Yes I do.” Emily looked up at last, from
her painting. “I’m not scared.”

“I want to see the lights,” Charles said.
Beatrice whirled on him.

“You tell such lies, Charles! There aren’t
any lights.”

“There are so. Sometimes, anyhow.”
“There aren’t.”

“There are so. You’re too dumb to see
them. Let’s go and feed him.”

It was understood that Beatrice took com-
mand now. She was the oldest. She was also,
Jane sensed, more afraid than the others,
even Emily.

They went upstairs, Beatrice carrying the
parcel of meat. She had already cut the
string. In the upper hall they grouped be-
fore a door.

“This is the way, Janie,” Charles said
rather proudly. “We gotta go up to the attic.
There’s a swing-down ladder in the bathroom
ceiling. We have to climb up on the tub to
reach.”

“My dress,” Jane said doubtfully.

“You won’t get dirty. Come on.”

Charles wanted to be first, but he was too
short. Beatrice climbed to the rim of the
tub and tugged at a ring in the ceiling.
The trap-door creaked and the stairs de-
scended slowly, with a certain majesty, be-
side the tub. It wasn’t dark up there. Light
came vaguely through the attic windows.

“Come on, Janie,” Beatrice said, with a
queer breathlessness, and they all scrambled
up somehow, by dint of violent acrobatics.

T HE attic was warm, quiet and dusty.

Planks were laid across the beams. Car-
tons and trunks were here and there.
Beatrice was already walking along one of

CALL HIM DEMON

the beams. Jane watched her.

Beatrice didn’t look back; she didn’t say
anything. Once her hand groped out behind
her; Charles, who was nearest, took it. Then
Beatrice reached a plank laid across to an-
other rafter. She crossed it. She went on —
stopped — and came back, with Charles.

“You weren’t doing it right,” Charles said
disappointedly. “You were thinking of the
wrong thing.”

Beatrice’s face looked oddly white in the
golden, faint light.

Jane met her cousin’s eyes. “Bee — ”
“You have to think of something else,”
Beatrice said quickly. “It’s all right. Come
on.

Charles at her heels, she started again
across the plank. Charles was saying some-
thing, in a rhythmic, mechanical monotone:

“One, two, buckle my shoe,

Three, four, knock at the door,

Five, six, pick up sticks — ”

Beatrice disappeared.

“Seven, eight, lay them — ”

Charles disappeared.

Bobby, his shoulders expressing rebelli-
ousness, followed. And vanished.

Emily made a small sound.

“Oh — Emily!” Jane said.

But her youngest cousin only said, “I don’t
want to go down there, Janie!”

“You don’t have to.”

“Yes, I do,” Emily said. “I’ll tell you what.
I won’t be afraid if you come right after
me. I always think there’s something coming
up behind me to grab — but if you promise to
come right after, it’ll be all right.”

“I promise,” Jane said.

Reassured, Emily walked across the bridge.
Jane was watching closely this time. Yet
she did not see Emily disappear. She was
suddenly — gone. Jane stepped forward, and
stopped as a sound came from downstairs.

“Jane!” Aunt Bessie’s voice. “Jane!” It
was louder and more peremptory now. “Jane,
where are you? Come here to me!”

Jane stood motionless, looking across the
plank bridge. It was quite empty, and there
was no trace of Emily or the other children.
The attic was suddenly full of invisible
menace. Yet she would have gone on, be-
cause of her promise, if —

“Jane!”

. 51

Jane reluctantly descended and followed
the summons to Aunt Bessie’s bedroom.
That prim-mouthed woman was pinning
fabric and moving her lips impatiently.

“Where on earth have you been, Jane?
I’ve been calling and calling.”

“We were playing,” Jane said. “Did you
want me, Aunt Bessie?”

“I should say I did,” Aunt Bessie said.
“This collar I’ve been crocheting. It’s for a
dress for you. Come here and let me try it
on. How you grow, child!”

And after that there was an eternity of
pinning and wriggling, while Jane kept
thinking of Emily, alone and afraid some-
where in the attic. She began to hate Aunt
Bessie. Yet the thought of rebellion or escape
never crossed her mind. The adults were
absolute monarchs. As far as relative values
went, trying on the collar was more im-
portant, at this moment, than anything else
in the world. At least, to the adults who
administered the world.

While Emily, alone and afraid on the

bridge that led to — elsewhere. . . .

*****

The uncles were playing poker. Aunt
Gertrude, the vaudeville actress, had un-
expectedly arrived for a few days and was
talking with Grandmother Keaton and Aunt
Bessie in the living room. Aunt Gertrude was
small and pretty, very charming, with a
bisque delicacy and a gusto for life that
filled Jane with admiration. But she was
subdued now.

“This place gives me the creeps,” she said,
making a dart with her folded fan at Jane’s
nose. “Hello, funny-face. Why aren’t you
playing with the other kids?”

“Oh, I’m tired,” Jane said, wondering about
Emily. It had been nearly an hour since —
“At your age I was never tired,” Aunt
Gertrude said. “Now look at me. Three a
day and that awful straight man I’ve got —
Ma, did I tell you — ” The voices pitched
lower.

J ANE watched Aunt Bessie’s skinny
fingers move monotonously as she
darted her crochet hook through the silk.

“This place is a morgue,” Aunt Gertrude
said suddenly. “What’s wrong with every-
body? Who’s dead?”

“It’s the air,” Aunt Bessie said. “Too hot
the year round.”

“You play Rochester in winter, Bessie my
girl, and you’ll be glad of a warm climate.

52 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

It isn’t that, anyway. I feel like — mm-m —
it’s like being on stage after the curtain’s
gone up.”

“It’s your fancy,” her mother said.

“Ghosts,” Aunt Gertrude said, and was
silent. Grandmother Keaton looked sharply
at Jane.

“Come over here, child,” she said.

Room was made on the soft, capacious
lap that had held so many youngsters.

Jane snuggled against that reassuring
warmth and tried to let her mind go blank,
transferring all sense of responsibility to
Grandmother Keaton. But it wouldn’t work.
There was something wrong in the house,
and the heavy waves of it beat out from a
center very near them.

The Wrong Uncle. Hunger and the avidity
to be fed. The nearness of bloody meat
tantalizing him as he lay hidden in his
strange, unguessable nest elsewhere — other-
where — in that strange place where the chil-
dren had vanished.

He was down there, slavering for the food;
he was up here, empty, avid, a vortex of
hunger very nearby.

He was double, a double uncle, masked but
terrifyingly clear. . . .

Jane closed her eyes and dug her head
deeper into Grandmother Keaton’s shoulder.

Aunt Gertrude gossiped in an oddly tense
voice, as if she sensed wrongness under the
surface and were frightened subtly.

“I’m opening at Santa Barbara in a couple
of days, Ma,” she said. “I — what’s wrong
with this house, anyhow? I’m as jumpy as
a cat today! — and I want you all to come
down and catch the first show. It’s a musical
comedy. I’ve been promoted.”

“I’ve seen the ‘Prince of Pilsen’ before,”
Grandmother Keaton said.

“Not with me in it. It’s my treat. I’ve
engaged rooms at the hotel already. The
kids have to come too. Want to see your
auntie act, Jane?”

Jane nodded against her grandmother’s
shoulder.

“Auntie,” Jane said suddenly. “Did you see
all the uncles?”

“Certainly I did.”

“All of them? Uncle James and Uncle
Bert and Uncle Simon and Uncle Lew?”

“The whole kaboodle. Why?”

“I just wondered.”

So Aunt Gertrude hadn’t noticed the
Wrong Uncle either. She wasn’t truly ob-
servant, Jane thought.

“I haven’t seen the kids, though. If they
don’t hurry up, they won’t get any of the
presents I’ve brought. You’d never guess
what I have for you, Janie.”

But Jane scarcely heard even that exciting
promise. For suddenly the tension in the
air gave way. The Wrong Uncle who had
been a vortex of hunger a moment before was
a vortex of ecstasy now. Somewhere, some-
how, at last Ruggedo was being fed. Some-
where, somehow, that other half of the
double uncle was devouring his bloody
fare. . . .

Janie was not in Grandmother Keaton’s
lap any more. The room was not around
her. The room was a spinning darkness that
winked with tiny lights — Christmas tree
lights, Charles had called them — and there
was a core of terror in the center of the whirl.
Here in the vanished room the Wrong Uncle
was a funnel leading from that unimaginable
nest where the other half of him dwelt, and
through the funnel, into the room, poured
the full ecstatic tide of his satiety.

Somehow in this instant Jane was very
near the other children who must stand be-
side that spinning focus of darkness. She
could almost sense their presence, almost
put out her hand to touch theirs.

Now the darkness shivered and the bright,
tiny lights drew together, and into her mind
came a gush of impossible memories. She
was too near him. And he was careless as
he fed. He was not guarding his thoughts.
They poured out, formless as an animal’s,
filling the dark. Thoughts of red food, and of
other times and places where that same red
food had been brought him by other hands.

It was incredible. The memories were not
of earth, not of this time or place. He had
traveled far, Ruggedo. In many guises. He
remembered now, in a flow of shapeless
fisions, he remembered tearing through
furred sides that squirmed away from his
hunger, remembered the gush of hot sweet
redness through the fur.

Not the fur of anything Jane had ever
imagined before. . . .

H E REMEMBERED a great court paved
with shining things, and something in
bright chains in the center, and rings of
watching eyes as he entered and neared the
sacrifice.

As he tore his due from its smooth sides,
the cruel chains clanked around him as he
fed. . . .

CALL HIM DEMON

53

Jane tried to close her eyes and not watch.
But it was not with eyes that she watched.
And she was ashamed and a little sickened
because she was sharing in that feast, tasting
the warm red sweetness with Ruggedo in
memory, feeling the spin of ecstasy through
her head as it spun through his.

“Ah — the kids are coming now,” Aunt
Gertrude was saying from a long way off.

Jane heard her dimly, and then more
clearly, and then suddenly Grandmother
Keaton’s lap was soft beneath her again,
and she was back in the familiar room. “A
herd of elephants on the stairs, eh?” Aunt
Gertrude said.

They were returning. Jane could hear
them too now. Really, they were making
much less noise than usual. They were sub-
dued until about halfway down the stairs,
and then there was a sudden outburst of
clattering and chatter that rang false to
Jane’s ears.

The children came in, Beatrice a little
white, Emily pink and puffy around the
eyes. Charles was bubbling over with re-
pressed excitement, but Bobby, the smallest,
was glum and bored. At sight of Aunt
Gertrude, the uproar redoubled, though Bea-
trice exchanged a quick, significant glance
with Jane.

T HEN presents and noise, and the uncles
coming back in; excited discussion of the
trip to Santa Barbara — a strained cheeriness
that, somehow, kept dying down into heavy
silence.

None of the adults ever really looked over
their shoulders, but — the feeling was of bad
things to come.

Only the children — not even Aunt Ger-
trude — were aware of the complete emptiness
of the Wrong Uncle. The projection of a
lazy, torpid, semi-mindless entity. Superfi-
cially he was as convincingly human as if he
had never focused his hunger here under this
roof, never let his thoughts whirl through
the minds of the children, never remembered
his red, dripping feasts of other times and
places.

He was very sated now. They could feel
the torpor pulsing out in slow, drowsy waves
so that all the grown-ups were yawning and
wondering why. But even now he was
empty. Not real. The “nobody-there” feel-
ing was as acute as ever to all the small,
keen, perceptive minds that saw him as he
was.

CHAPTER III
Sated Eater

L ATER, at bedtime, only Charles wanted
to talk about the matter. It seemed to
Jane that Beatrice had grown up a little since
the early afternoon. Bobby was reading
“The Jungle Book,” or pretending to, with
much pleased admiration of the pictures
showing Shere Khan, the tiger. Emily had
turned her face to the wall and was pre-
tending to be asleep.

“Aunt Bessie called me,” Jane told her,
sensing a faint reproach. “I tried as soon as I
could get away from her. She wanted to try
that collar thing on me.”

“Oh.” The apology was accepted. But
Beatrice still refused to talk. Jane went over
to Emily’s bed and put her arm around the
little girl.

“Mad at me, Emily?”

“No.”

“You are, though. I couldn’t help it, I
honey.”

“It was all right,” Emily said. “I didn’t 1
care.”

“All bright and shiny,” Charles said
sleepily. “Like a Christmas tree.”

Beatrice whirled on him. “Shut up!” she
cried. “Shut up, Charles! Shut up, shut up,
shut up!”

Aunt Bessie put her head into the room,
“What’s the matter, children?” she asked.
“Nothing, Auntie,” Beatrice said. “We

were just playing.”

****«•

Fed, temporarily satiated, it lay torpid in j
its curious nest. The house was silent, the j
occupants asleep. Even the Wrong Uncle i
slept, for Ruggedo was a good mimic.

The Wrong Uncle was not a phantasm, not
a mere projection of Ruggedo. As an amoeba
extends a pseudopod toward food, so Ruggedo
had extended and created the Wrong Uncle.
But there the parallel stopped. For the
Wrong Uncle was not an elastic extension
that could be withdrawn at will. Rather, he
— it — was a permanent limb, as a man’s arm
is. From the brain through the neural sys-
tem the message goes, and the arm stretches
out, the fingers constrict — and there is food
in the hand’s grip.

But Ruggedo ’s extension was less limited.

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

54

It was not permanently bound by rigid na-
tural laws of matter. An arm may be painted
black. And the Wrong Uncle looked and
acted human, except to clear immature eyes.

There were rules to be followed, even by
Ruggedo. The natural laws of a world could
bind it, to a certain extent. There were
cycles. The life-span of a moth-caterpillar is
run by cycles, and before it can spin its
cocoon and metamorphize, it must eat — eat —
eat. Not until the time of change has come
can it evade its current incarnation. Nor
could Ruggedo change, now, until the end
of its cycle had come. Then there would
be another metamorphosis, as there had al-
ready, in the unthinkable eternity of its
past, been a million curious mutations.

But, at present, it was bound by the rules
of its current cycle. The extension could
not be withdrawn. And the Wrong Uncle
was a part of it, and it was a part of the
Wrong Uncle.

The Scoodler’s body and the Scoodler’s
head.

Through the dark house beat the unceasing,
drowsy waves of satiety — slowly, imper-
ceptibly quickening toward that nervous
pulse of avidity that always came after the
processes of indigestion and digestion had
been completed.

Aunt Bessie rolled over and began to
snore. In another room, the Wrong Uncle,
without waking, turned on his back and also
snored.

The talent of protective mimicry was well
developed. . . .

It was afternoon again, though by only
half an hour, and the pulse in the house
had changed subtly in tempo and mood.

“If we’re going up to Santa Barbara,”
Grandmother Keaton had said, “I’m going to
take the children down to the dentist today.
Their teeth want cleaning, and it’s hard
enough to get an appointment with Dr.
Hover for one youngster, not to mention
four. Jane, your mother wrote me you’d
been to the dentist a month ago, so you
needn’t go.”

After that the trouble hung unspoken over
the children. But no one mentioned it. Only,
as Grandmother Keaton herded the kids out
on the porch, Beatrice waited till last. Jane
was in the doorway, watching, Beatrice
reached behind her without looking, fumbled,
found Jane’s hand, and squeezed it hard.
That was all.

But the responsibility had been passed on.

No words had been needed. Beatrice had
said plainly that it was Jane’s job now. It was
her responsibility.

S HE dared not delay too long. She was
too vividly aware of the rising tide of
depression affecting the adults. Ruggedo was
getting hungry again.

She watched her cousins till they vanished
beneath the pepper trees, and the distant
rumble of the trolley put a period to any
hope of their return. After that, Jane walked
to the butcher shop and bought two pounds
of meat. She drank a soda. Then she came
back to the house.

She felt the pulse beating out faster.

She got a tin pan from the kitchen and
put the meat on it, and slipped up to the
bathroom. It was hard to reach the attic
with her burden and without help, but she
did it. In the warm stillness beneath the
roof she stood waiting, half-hoping to hear
Aunt Bessie call again and relieve her of this
duty. But no voice came.

The simple mechanics of what she had to
do were sufficiently prosaic to keep fear at a
little distance. Besides, she was scarcely
nine. And it was not dark in the attic.

She walked along the rafter, balancing, till
she came to the plank bridge. She felt its
resilient vibration underfoot.

“One, two, buckle my shoe,

Three, four, knock at the door,

Five, six, pick up sticks,

Seven, eight-—”

She missed the way twice. The third time
she succeeded. The mind had to be at just the
right pitch of abstraction. . . . She crossed the
bridge, and turned, and —

It was dim, almost dark, in this place. It
smelled cold and hollow, of the underground.
Without surprise she knew she was deep
down, perhaps beneath the house, perhaps
very far away from it. That was as accept-
able to her as the rest of the strangeness.
She felt no surprise.

Curiously, she seemed to know the way.
She was going into a tiny enclosure, and yet
at the same time she wandered for awhile
through low-roofed, hollow spaces, endless,
very dim, smelling of cold and moisture. An
unpleasant place to the mind, and a dan-
gerous place as well to wander through with
one’s little pan of meat.

It found the meat acceptable.

Looking back later, Jane had no recol-
lection whatever of it She did not know how

CALL HIM DEMON 51

she had proffered the food, or how it had
been received, or where in that place of para-
doxical space and smallness it lay dreaming
of other worlds and eras.

She only knew that the darkness spun
around her again, winking with little lights,

I as it devoured its food. Memories swirled
from its mind to hers as if the two minds
! were of one fabric. She saw more clearly
! this time. She saw a great winged thing
1 caged in a glittering pen, and she remem-
bered as Ruggedo remembered, and leaped
with Ruggedo’s leap, feeling the wings buffet
about her and feeling her rending hunger
rip into the body, and tasting avidly the
hot, sweet, salty fluid bubbling out.

It was a mixed memory. Blending with it,
other victims shifted beneath Ruggedo’s
grip, the feathery pinions becoming the beat
of great clawed arms and the writhe of rep-
tilian litheness. All his victims became one
in memory as he ate.

One flash of another memory opened
briefly toward the last. Jane was aware of a
great swaying garden of flowers larger than
herself, and of cowled figures moving silent-
ly among them, and of a victim with shower-
ing pale hair lying helpless upon the hp of
one gigantic flower, held down with chains
like shining blossoms. And it seemed to Jane
that she herself went cowled among those
silent figures, and that he — it — Ruggedo — in
another guise walked beside her toward the
sacrifice.

It was the first human sacrifice he had
recalled. Jane would have liked to know
1 more about that. She had no moral scruples,
of course. Food was food. But the memory
flickered smoothly into another picture and
she never saw the end. She did not really
need to see it. There was only one end to
all these memories. Perhaps it was as well
for her that Ruggedo did not dwell over-
long on that particular moment of all his
bloody meals.

“Seventeen, eighteen,

Maids in waiting,

Nineteen, twenty — ”

She tilted precariously back across the
| rafters, holding her empty pan. The attic
; smelled dusty. It helped to take away the
reek of remembered crimson from her
mind. . . .

W HEN the children came back, Bea-
trice said simply, “Did you?” and
Jane nodded. The taboo still held. They

would not discuss the matter more fully ex- j
cept in case of real need. And the drowsy, j
torpid beat in the house, the psychic empti-
ness of the Wrong Uncle, showed plainly that
the danger had been averted again — for a
time. . . .

“Read me about Mowgli, Granny,” Bobby
said. Grandmother Keaton settled down,
wiped and adjusted her spectacles, and took
up Kipling. Presently the other children
were drawn into the charmed circle. Grand-
mother spoke of Shere Khan’s downfall —
of the cattle driven into the deep gulch to
draw the tiger— and of the earth-shaking
stampede that smashed the killer into bloody
pulp.

“Well,” Grandmother Keaton said, closing
the book, “That’s the end of Shere Khan.
He’s dead now.”

“No he isn’t,” Bobby roused and said
sleepily.

“Of course he is. Good and dead. The
cattle killed him.”

“Only at the end, Granny. If you start
reading at the beginning again, Shere Khan's
right there.”

Bobby, of course, was too young to have
any conception of death. You were killed
sometimes in games of cowboys-and-Indians,
an ending neither regrettable nor fatal. Death
is an absolute term that needs personal
experience to be made understandable.

Uncle Lew smoked his pipe and wrinkled
the brown skin around his eyes at Uncle
Bert, who bit his lips and hesitated a long
time between moves. But Uncle Lew won
the chess game anyway. Uncle James winked
at Aunt Gertrude and said he thought he’d
take a walk, would she like to come along?
She would.

After their departure, Aunt Bessie looked
up, sniffed.

“You just take a whiff of their breaths
when they come back, Ma,” she said. “Why
do you stand for it?”

But Grandmother Keaton chuckled and
stroked Bobby’s hair. He had fallen asleep
on her lap his hands curled into small fists,
his cheeks faintly flushed.

Uncle Simon’s gaunt figure stood by the
window.

He watched through the curtains, and said
nothing at all.

“Early to bed,” Aunt Bessie said. “If we’re
going to Santa Barbara in the morning.
Children!”

And that was that.

56

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

CHAPTER IV
End of the Game

B Y MORNING Bobby was running a
temperature, and Grandmother Keaton
refused to risk his life in Santa Barbara.
This made Bobby very sullen, but solved
the problem the children had been wonder-
ing about for many hours. Also, a telephone
call from Jane’s father said that he was
arriving that day to pick up his daughter,
and she had a little brother now. Jane, who
had no illusions about the stork, was relieved,
and hoped her mother wouldn’t be sick any
more now.

A conclave was held in Bobby’s bedroom
before breakfast.

“You know what to do, Bobby,” Beatrice
said. “Promise you’ll do it?”

“Promise. Uh-huh.”

“You can do it today, Janie, before your
father comes. And you’d better get a lot of
meat and leave it for Bobby.”

“I can’t buy any meat without money,”
Bobby said. Somewhat reluctantly Beatrice
counted out what was left of Jane’s small
hoard, and handed it over. Bobby stuffed the
change under his pillow and pulled at the
red flannel wound around his neck.

“It scratches,” he said. “I’m not sick, any-
way.”

“It was those green pears you ate yester-
- day,” Emily said very meanly. “You thought
nobody saw you, didn’t you?”

Charles came in; he had been downstairs.
He was breathless.

“Hey, know what happened?” he said.
“He hurt his foot. Now he can’t go to Santa
Barbara. I bet he did it on purpose.”
“Gosh,” Jane said. “How?”

“He said he twisted it on the stairs. But
I bet it’s a lie. He just doesn’t want to go.”
“Maybe he can’t go, — that far,” Beatrice
said, with a sudden flash of intuition, and
they spoke no more of the subject. But
Beatrice, Emily and Charles were all re-
lieved that the Wrong Uncle was not to go
to Santa Barbara with them, after all.

It took two taxis to carry the travelers
and their luggage. Grandmother Keaton, the
Wrong Uncle, and Jane stood on the front
porch and waved. The automobiles clattered
off, and Jane promptly got some money

from Bobby -and went to the butcher store,
returning heavy-laden.

The Wrong Uncle, leaning on a cane,
hobbled into the sun-parlor and lay down.
Grandmother Keaton made a repulsive but
healthful drink for Bobby, and Jane decided
not to do what she had to do until after-
noon. Bobby read “The Jungle Book,”
stumbling over the hard words, and, for the
while, the truce held.

Jane was not to forget that day quickly.
The smells were sharply distinct; the odor
of baking bread from the kitchen, the sticky-
sweet flower scents from outside, the slightly
dusty, rich-brown aroma exhaled by the sun-
warmed rugs and furniture. Grandmother
Keaton went up to her bedroom to cold-
cream her hands and face, and Jane lounged
on the threshold, watching.

It was a charming room, in its comfortable,
unimaginative way. The curtains were so
stiffly starched that they billowed out in
crisp whiteness, and the bureau was cluttered
with fascinating objects— a pin -cushion
shaped like a doll, a tiny red china shoe, with
tinier gray china mice on it, a cameo brooch
bearing a portrait of Grandmother Keaton as
a girl.

And slowly, insistently, the pulse increased,
felt even here, in this bedroom, where Jane
felt it was a rather impossible intrusion.

Directly after lunch the bell rang, and it
was Jane’s father, come to take her back to
San Francisco. He was in a hurry to catch
the train, and there was time only for a
hurried conversation before the two were
whisked off in the waiting taxi. But Jane
had found time to run upstairs and say good-
by to Bobby— and tell him where the meat
was hidden.

“All right, Janie,” Bobby said. “Goodby.”

She knew she should not have left the
job to Bobby. A nagging sense of responsi-
bility haunted her all the way to the rail-
road station. She was only vaguely aware
of adult voices saying the train would be
very late, and of her father suggesting that
the circus was in town. . . .

It was a good circus. She almost forgot
Bobby and the crisis that would be mounting
so dangerously unless he met it as he had
promised. Early evening was blue as they
moved with the crowd out of the tent. And
then through a rift Jane saw a small, familiar
figure, and the bottom dropped out of her
stomach. She knew.

Mr. Larkin saw Bobby in almost the same

CALL HIM DEMON 57

instant. He called sharply, and a moment
later the two children were looking at one
another, Bobby's plump face sullen.

“Does your grandmother know you’re
here, Bobby?” Mr. Larkin said.

“Well, I guess not,” Bobby said.

“You ought to be paddled, young man.
Come along, both of you. I’ll have to phone
her right away. She’ll be worried to death.”

I N THE drug store, while he telephoned,
Jane looked at her cousin. She was
suffering the first pangs of maturity’s burden,

the knowledge of responsibility misused.
“Bobby," she said. “Did you?”

“You leave me alone,” Bobby said with a
scowl. There was silence.

Mr. Larkin came back. “Nobody answered.
I’ve called a taxi. There’ll be just time to
get Bobby back before our train leaves.”

In the taxi also there was mostly silence.
As for what might be happening at the
house, Jane did not think of that at alL The
mind has its own automatic protections.
And in any case, it was too late now. . . .

[Turn page]

fOl/REOUrOF
m/S WORLD/

WELL -/DO
s/t/u/E w/m

//STAR/

millions of « iel v -Razor Corp>»

58 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

When the taxi drew up the house was
blazing with orange squares of windows in
the dusk. There were men on the porch,
and light glinted on a police officer’s shield.

“You kids wait here,” Mr. Larkin said un-
easily. “Don’t get out of the car.”

The taxi driver shrugged and pulled out a
folded newspaper as Mr. Larkin hurried
toward the porch. In the back seat Jane
spoke to Bobby, her voice very soft.

“You didn’t,” she whispered. It was not
even an accusation.

“I don’t care,” Bobby whispered back. “I
was tired of that game. I wanted to play
something else.” He giggled. “I won, any-
how,” he declared.

“How? What happened?”

“The police came, like I knew they would.
He never thought of that. So I won.”

“But how?”

“Well, it was sort of like ‘The Jungle
Book.’ Shooting tigers, remember? They
tied a kid to a stake and, when the tiger
comes — bang! Only the kids were all gone
to Santa Barbara, and you’d gone too. So I
used Granny. I didn’t think she’d mind. She
plays games with us a lot. And anyhow, she
was the only one left.”

“But Bobby, a kid doesn’t mean a kid like
us. It means a baby goat. And anyhow — ”

“Oh!” Bobby whispered. “Oh — well, any-
how, I thought Granny would be all right.
She’s too fat to run fast.” He grinned scorn-
fully. “He’s dumb,” he said. “He should
have known the hunters always come when
you tie a kid out for the tiger. He doesn’t
know anything. When I told him I’d locked
Granny in her room and nobody else was
around, I thought he might guess.” Bobby
looked crafty. “I was smart. I told him
through the window. I thought he might
think about me being a kid. But he didn’t.
He went right upstairs — fast. He even for-
got to limp. I guess he was pretty hungry
by then.” Bobby glanced toward the swarm-
ing porch. “Prob’ly the police have got him
now,” he added carelessly. “It was easy as
pie. I won.”

Jane’s mind had not followed these fan-
cies.

“Is she dead?” she asked, very softly.

Bobby looked at her. The word had a
different meaning for him. It had no mean-
ing, beyond a phase in a game. And, to his
knowledge, the tiger had never harmed the
tethered kid.

Mr, Larkin was coming back to the taxi

now, walking very slowly and not very
straight

Jane could not see his face. . . .

*****

It was hushed up, of course, as much as
possible. The children, who knew so much
more than those who were shielding them,
were futilely protected from the knowledge
of what had happened. As futilely as they,
in their turn, had tried to protect their
elders. Except for the two oldest girls, they
didn’t particularly care. The game was over.
Granny had had to go away on a long, long
journey, and she would never be back.

They understood what that meant well
enough.

The Wrong Uncle, on the other hand, had
had to go away too, they were told, to a big
hospital where he would be taken care of
all his life.

This puzzled them all a little, for it fell
somewhat outside the limits of their experi-
ence. Death they understood very imper-
fectly, but this other thing was completely
mystifying. They didn’t greatly care, once
their interest faded, though Bobby for some
time listened to readings of “The Jungle
Book” with unusual attention, wondering if
this time they would take the tiger away
instead of killing him on the spot. They
never did, of course. Evidently in real life
tigers were different. . . .

For a long time afterward, in nightmares,
Jane’s perverse imagination dwelt upon
and relived the things she would not let it
remember when she was awake. She would
see Granny’s bedroom as she had seen it last,
the starched curtains billowing, the sunshine,
the red china shoe, the doll-pincushion.
Granny, rubbing cold cream into her
wrinkled hands and looking up more and
more nervously from time to time as the
long, avid waves of hunger pulsed through
the house from the thing in its dreadful
hollow place down below.

It must have been very hungry. The Wrong
Uncle, pretending to a wrenched ankle down-
stairs, must have shifted and turned upon
the couch, that hollow man, empty and blind
of everything but the need for sustenance,
the one red food he could not live without.
The empty automaton in the sunporch and
the ravenous being in its warp below pulsing
with one hunger, ravening for one food. . . .

It had been very wise of Bobby to speak
through the window when he delivered his
baited message.

CALL HIM DEMON 59

PSTAIRS in the locked room, Granny
must have discovered presently that
she could not get out. Her fat, mottled
fingers, slippery from cold- creaming, must
have tugged vainly at the knob.

Jane dreamed of the sound of those foot-
steps many times. The tread she had never
heard was louder and more real to her than
any which had ever sounded in her ears.
She knew very surely how they must have
come bounding up the stairs, thump, thump,
thump, two steps at a time, so that Granny
would look up in alarm, knowing it could
not be the Uncle with his wrenched ankle.
She would have jumped up then, her heart
knocking, thinking wildly of burglars.

It can’t have lasted long. The steps would
have taken scarcely the length of a heart-
beat to come down the hall. And by now the
house would be shaking and pulsing with
one triumphant roar of hunger almost ap-
peased. The thumping steps would beat in
rhythm to it, the long quick strides coming
with dreadful purposefulness down the hall.
And then the key clicking in the lock. And
then —

Usually then Jane awoke. . . .

A little boy isn’t responsible. Jane told her-
self that many times, then and later. She
didn’t see Bobby again very often, and when
she did he had forgotten a great deal; new
experiences had crowded out the old. He got
a puppy for Christmas, and he started to
school. When he heard that the Wrong Uncle
had died in the asylum he had had to think
hard to remember who they meant, for to the
' younger children the Wrong Uncle had never
been a member of the family, only a part in
a game they had played and won.

Gradually the nameless distress which had
once pervaded the household faded and

ceased. It was strongest, most desperate, in
the days just after Granny’s death, but
everyone attributed that to shock. When
it died away they were sure.

By sheer accident Bobby’s cold, limited
logic had been correct. Ruggedo would not
have been playing fair if he had brought still
another Wrong Uncle into the game, and
Bobby had trusted him to observe the rules.
He did observe them, for they were a law
he could not break.

Ruggedo and the Wrong Uncle were parts
of a whole, indissolubly bound into their
cycle. Not until the cycle had been suc-
cessfully completed could the Wrong Uncle
extension be retracted or the cord broken.
So, in the end, Ruggedo was helpless.

In the asylum, the Wrong Uncle slowly
starved. He would not touch what they
offered. He knew what he wanted, but they
would not give him that. The head and the
body died together, and the house that had
been Grandmother Keaton’s was peaceful
once more.

If Bobby ever remembered, no one knew
it. He had acted with perfect logic, limited
only by his experience. If you do something
sufficiently bad, the policeman will come and
get you. And he was tired of the game.
Only his competitive instinct kept him from
simply quitting it and playing something
else.

As it was, he wanted to win — and he had
won.

No adult would have done what Bobby did
— but a child is of a different species. By
adult standards, a child is not wholly sane.
Because of the way his mind worked, then —
because of what he did, and what he
wanted —

Call him demon.

When a distant space species attacks earth, a man of the future
allows his brain to be grafted into that of a weird enemy
creature — in PHALID’S FATE, an amazing complete
novelet by JACK VANCE coming next issue!

"Ylleen, swerve westward!” Farrel warned her desperately

NEVER THE TWAIN SHALL MEET

By BRETT STERLING

Out in space John Farrel keeps his tryst with Ylleen,
gorgeous Martian girl whose love means — sudden death!

J OHN FARREL felt the same chill ap-
prehension as his officers and men, but
he couldn’t show it.

It was a fine thing to be a space-ship
captain — back on Earth. It was fine to walk
out of New York Spaceport and have people
glance with admiration and respect at your
uniform and silver bars.

But it wasn’t so good to wear those silver

bars when you were fifty million miles from 1
Earth, with your crippled ship drifting into I
a big meteor-swarm, and your men looking j
at you in mute, scared appeal.

Captain Farrel braced his lanky figure and ;
tried to keep a look of confidence on his dark, I
tired face as he spoke.

“The Thetis has been hit bad, men. But
it’s not hopeless. We’ll still reach Ganymede

NEVER THE TWAIN SHALL MEET Si

if we can fix up those smashed jets.”

“Fix them up with what?” demanded Gor-
ley, the first mate. The big red-headed
Irishman, always either in the clouds or the
depths, had dejection all over his battered
face. “We’ve already used our spare jet-
tubes and we’ve not enough refractory alloy
to make more.”

“We’ve got our lives, all ten of us, and
enough oxygen for a couple of weeks,” Far-
rel pointed out. “So we still have a chance.”

He walked across the turbine-room, in
which they had gathered after the stray
meteor tore away the jet-tubes and part of
the stern. He pointed through a window at
the star-flecked void ahead.

“That meteor-swarm we’re drifting to-
ward — we may find the refractory metals we
need there. Lots of meteors assay high in
such metals.”

A faint hope lighted their faces as they
gazed. Then Binetti, the thin young navi-
gator, suddenly yelled and pointed.

“Look at that!”

Captain Farrel swung back to the window
in time to glimpse it. It was a sudden flare of
light in space ahead of them.

It burst forth deep inside the vast, loose
meteor-swarm, but it wasn’t the red-hot glow
of two ordinary meteors colliding. This was
a blinding explosion of pure light, gone in an
instant.

Farrel knew instantly what it meant, and
what it meant to them. But for a moment,
he couldn’t speak.

It was Kells, the stocky second mate, who
cried hoarsely:

“Good heavens, some of the meteors in
this swarm are Negative!”

“Negative?” Gorley stared, then sat down
and ci’ossed himself. “Then that is that.”

It was death-sentence, that blipding flash
ahead. It was death-sentence for any ship
that ventured amid Negative meteors.

Some of the crew-men looked stunned,
bewildered. Kells was still staring from the
window, his lips moving numbly. Binetti
cursed softly with Latin fluency and passion.

F ARREL felt the same impact of cold, ulti-
mate despair. But he couldn’t surrender
to it. The bars on his sleeve wouldn’t let him.

“So because some of this swarm is Nega-
tive, we just lie down and die?” he rasped.
“Shall I open the airlock and get it over
with?”

Gorley shook his red head heavily.

“It’s no use, sir. We could maybe buck
everything else, but you can’t buck Negative
matter.”

The same despair was on all their faces,
Farrel saw. The despair and dread which all
space-men felt toward Negative matter.

It had been so since the first space-ships
had taken off from Earth, forty years before.
Had been so, since some of those ships had
tried to land on Venus and Mars and had
vanished in flares of energy.

That was the ghastly way in which men had
first learned that Venus and Mars were
Negative. Saturn was too, and Neptune also,
it was believed. Only Mercury, Earth, Jupi-
ter and Uranus, and their satellites, were
Positive.

Farrel had often thought that the stunning
discovery should have been forseen. For the
possibility of Negative matter had been
realized by scientists since the discovery of
the positron, back in 1932.

All matter consisted of atoms which had
electrons revolving around a central proton.
In Positive matter, ordinary Earthly matter,
the proton had a positive charge and the elec-
trons had negative charges. It had been
blandly assumed that the matter of the whole
universe was like that.

But Anderson’s discovery of the positron in
1932 had cast first doubts on that assumption.
For the positron was an electron, but it had
a positive charge. Then in 1945 the Russian
scientists, on their mountain- top, had trapped
strange protons that drifted in from space,
protons that had a negative charge.

Negative protons, positive electrons — these
together formed matter exactly the reverse of
ordinary earthly matter. They formed Nega-
tive matter. And when Negative and Positive
matter came into contact, their opposing
charges caused them to explode into a burst
of photons, into pure energy.

Such an energy-explosion had happened
when a Positive ship from Earth had first
tried to land on the Negative world of Mars.
It was what had happened in the swarm
ahead when a Positive and Negative meteor
had touched. It was what would happen to
the Thetis and all in it, if and when it touched
a Negative meteor in that devil’s swarm.

Captain Farrel forced himself to speak
evenly.

“Our chances are a lot worse than we
thought. But they’re not gone entirely.”

He gestured ahead. “We may drift inside
that loose swarm for days without touching a

62 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

Negative fragment. We can still escape, if in
I that time we can find a Positive meteor with
, the refractory metals we need.”

Gorley’s mercurial spirits did a rebound.
“At that, we’ve a chance if our luck holds
out,” he cried. “We’ll just pray that no
Negative meteor crosses our path.”

Kells grinned mirthlessly. “Praying is
about all we can do, until the Thetis drifts to
a nice, convenient Positive meteor of metals.”
Binetti’s black eyes lighted hopefully.
“Shall I start running the spectroscanner on
the nearest stuff in that swarm, sir?”

Farrel breathed less tightly as he saw that
habit and discipline were regaining their
hold.

“Yes, and meanwhile We’ll get the space-
suits ready to use,” he suggested. “Kells,
have the power-crews check their turbines.”
The Thetis drifted on and on. It didn’t
seem to be drifting, in the following hours.
It seemed to be standing still, hanging in the
middle of the vast and solemn vault of watch-
ing stars.

But the radar screen showed they were
moving into the outer fringes of the vast,
loose swarm of debris. The swarm itself
showed to the eye merely as a great, tenuous
maze of creeping crumbs of light.

Binetti, sweating at his instruments in the
nav-room, looked up doubtfully at Farrel.

“There are indications of Positive meteors
with the metals we need, sir. But the whole
swarm is rotten with Negative.”

Farrel nodded.

“It would be,” he said. “This debris be-
tween Mars and Jupiter is all rubbish left
over from the formation of the planets.”

The Sun had fathered all the planets, Posi-
tive and Negative alike. It was believed that
the Sun consisted largely of neutrons or
neutral protons, and that these were trans-
muted gradually into Positive and Negative
atoms whose mutual destruction yielded the
energy of the solar orb.

L ONG ago, in bursts of creation whose
strange periodicity was still a riddle, the
Sun had thrown off alternate masses of the
two different kinds of matter it created. And
those masses had formed the planets, planets
forever divided into two opposite kinds of
worlds.

Farrel looked back from the nav-room at
the red spark of Mars and the more distant
white speck of Venus, almost lost in the Sun
glare.

“Worlds we’ll never be able to visit,” he
thought. “We’ve done a lot in forty years,
colonizing Jupiter’s moons and reaching out
now to Uranus, but we’ll never see those
worlds.”

Weariness increasingly drugged his brain.
It seemed to Farrel suddenly that he had
always been tired like this, since boyhood.

Toiling night and day to get his technical
education, working his brain to the limit at
Space Academy, sweating his way up to a
Captain’s bars — and all for what? To die here
now, in this faraway void?

Farrel had no illusions. Their chances were
a hundred to one. Ten years ago, he’d have
thought such a death glorious. But a man of
thirty couldn’t think like one of twenty.

Binetti’s cry, an hour later, jerked Farrel
out of his tired doze.

“There’s another ship drifting in this
swarm!”

“Another ship?” echoed Farrel, astounded.
“Here, give me that scanner — ”

"It’s just north of us in the swarm,” Binetti
said excitedly.

Space-men had divided the equatorial
plane into four arbitrary quadrants. North,
east, south, west, zenith and nadir were the
arbitrary directions of space. Farrel peered
tautly northward now.

“By Heaven, there is!” he muttered. “A
ship drifting near us here in the swarm. No
jet-flares showing. It must be crippled, like
us.”

Within an hour, the men of the Thetis could
see the other ship with unaided eyes. It was
drifting powerless in the vast, rotating swarm
of meteoric debris, as they were drifting.

But it looked different from their own
standard, torpedo-shaped craft. This other
vessel was oddly foreshortened, glinting in
the thin starshine like an elongated metal egg.

“It’s no ordinary Jupiter-run ship,” said
Gorley in puzzled tones. “Must be one of the
new experimental ships they’re always trying
out.”

“Their hull looks intact,” Kells remarked.
“It must have been turbine failure that
brought them in here.”

Excited relief soared in Farrel.

“But their jet-tubes look okay! This is our
chance! We can surely fix up one of our two
ships and get away!”

The other men quickly realized that. Faces
brightened, taut lips relaxed, light came back
into their eyes.

Farrel gave quick orders. “Kells, you and

NEVER THE TWAIN SHALL MEET 63

I will go across in space-suits and find out if
anyone’s living on that craft. We’ll have to
get a line between ships soon, before the
drift separates us.”

He and the second mate were soon attired
in the heavy suits and transparent helmets.
In the airlock they tested their space-phones,
oxygenators and hand-rocket impellers, and
then leaped out into space.

Pointing their impellers backward, they
used the little rocket jets to hurl them toward
that other drifting ship, a quarter-mile away.

Awesome, floating forward here in the in-
finite abyss! Farr el had done it before but
he would never get used to 4t. And his skin
crawled at the thought of the Negative mat-
ter in the swarm around them.

Kells’ voice came excitedly on the space-
phone.

“That ship’s not dead, sir! There are peo-
ple coming out from it!”

Farrel’s pulse jumped as he saw that three
figures had leaped out from the oval ship and
were coming by impeller to meet them.

“They must have sighted our ship just as
we saw theirs,” Kells was saying. “Now we
can surely make repairs and get away.”

“If a Negative meteor doesn’t hit us first,”
warned Farrel.

Kells was shooting eagerly ahead to meet
the oncoming three figures. Farrel, follow-
ing, saw that the space-suits of these three
were as unusual as their experimental ship.
Not only their helmets but their whole suits
seemed to be of transparent plastic.

“Why, one of the two in back is a girl!”
came Kells’ surprised exclamation from
ahead. “Captain, I — ”

At that moment, Kells’ suited figure met
the man leading the three strangers. They
clasped gloved hands to avoid drifting past
each other.

A blinding flare of energy exploded where
Kells and the other man had just touched!
And as that flare died, the two men were —
gone.

“Stars in heaven!” choked Farrel. “Those
people — they’re Negative!”

T HE hideous unexpectedness of it stunned
his brain, left him floating numbly. Float-
ing right toward the remaining two strangers!

He glimpsed them clearly, inside their
transparent suits. They were white-skinned
people like himself. One was a young man.

The other person, the nearest, was a dark-
haired girl whose wide, horrified green eyes

met his gaze. Was she shouting to him?

Farrel couldn’t see any space-phone mike
inside her helmet. These people didn’t seem
to have space-phones at all.

Yet he heard something! Not with his ears.
He heard it dimly in his mind, a thought and
not a voice. A warning thought!

“Keep — away — death — if — touch — ”

Warning thoughts inside his brain? Had
he gone crazy?

“Farrel, use your impeller! Get back!”
came Gorley’s voice in frantic warning from
the ship, over his space-phone.

That real, familiar voice snapped Farrel out
of his daze enough to make him shift his
impeller. Its flaming jet checked his drift.

The girl had similarly checked herself. She
and the man floated a dozen yards away
from Farrel, staring wildly at him.

Farrel saw her more clearly now, the
broad, low forehead, the wide, stunned green
eyes, the parted red lips, and the rounded
limbs hardly concealed by the short tunic
she wore inside her transparent suit.

He forced speech from a dry throat. “Good
grief! What are you people? You can’t be
human.”

The girl saw him speaking. She shook her
head. She eouldn’t hear him. He remem-
bered that she had no space-phone in her
helmet.

“But how do they talk to each other in
space without phones?” Farrel wondered
dazedly.

“Not talk — thought — brain waves — ampli-
fied—”

Again, those sudden thoughts rushed
through his mind. Thoughts that were not
his.

Dimly, he remembered something. The en-
cephalic brain-waves discovered back in 1929
by Berger, those minute electric oscillations
of the brain — could it be that they were used
somehow for communication?

“For talk, yes! We use— apparatus that —
amplifies our brain-waves and broadcasts
them at short range. Mechanical telepathy.”

He was hearing those thoughts much more
clearly now, as the girl came a little closer!
Mechanical telepathy, thought-pulsations
electrically amplified and broadcast to every
nearby brain!

He had learned a little to catch her quick
mental messages.

“You have no amplifier, but at close range
I can faintly receive your thought,” she was
telling him. “You are — receiving mine?”

64 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

“Yes,” he started to say, but the girl made
a quick gesture.

“Think your answer. Think it with all your
mind, as you speak it!”

Fai’rel tried to do that as he spoke hoarsely.

“You people — your ship — you’re really
Negative? Living people of Negative matter?”

Her mental answer echoed in his mind.

“And you are of the other kind of matter?
But it is incredible! No one has ever dreamed
of that.”

That went double, Farrel thought numbly.
No one in his own world had seriously
thought that there might be people who were
Negative.

Yet why not? There were whole Negative
worlds, Mars, Venus and others. Why
shouldn’t life have risen on them, the same as
on Earth? Negative matter was just as good
for that purpose as Positive!

His brain reeled. He tried to think con-
centratedly as he asked:

“Who are you? What world are you from?”

“I am Ylleen,” was the girl’s replying
thought, as nearly as he could grasp it. “And
I come from the red planet yonder.”

Her arm gestured toward the far red spark
of Mars.

“Our ship was returning home from the
sixth planet when its turbines failed. We
drifted into this swarm. We have been work-
ing to repair them,”

Ylleen? A girl from the Negative world of
Mars, a Negative girl talking to him here by
amplified thought- waves? It all seemed im-
possible.

Two wholly different peoples co-existing in
the Solar System without knowing of each
other until this chance encounter in space?
Two peoples infinitely separated by their
basic difference in matter?

He had to odmit its possibility. Neither folk
had been able to visit the other’s worlds, so
had not even suspected the other’s existence
till —

“Farrel! Behind you!”

That sharp, warning cry in his ears came
suddenly from the distant Thetis in Gorley’s
voice.

At the same moment, Ylleen and the man
with her pointed behind him in frantic
warning.

Farrel twisted his neck and glimpsed the
jagged, thirty-foot ball of stone riding pon-
derously through the swarm toward them.

“Quick!” came Ylleen’s flashing thought.

“Use your impellers!”

F ARREL’S impeller hurled him zenith-
ward and Ylleen shot up in the same di-
rection. But the Negative man near her mis-
judged direction.

“Bran, upward!” Ylleen’s frantic amplified
thought directed at the other Martian im-
pinged on Farrel’s brain. “You’re heading
wrong!”

Bran, the Negative man, saw his mistake
and tried to dodge clear with his impeller but
was a shade too late.

The edge of the jagged mass brushed his
space-suit. There was a blinding explosion of
light. The Negative man and a segment of the
meteor vanished in it, and then the great
stone mass thundered on.

Ylleen’s thought came agonized with grief.
“It was a Positive meteor and it grazed
him!”

“Ylleen, swerve westward!” Farrel
shouted, thinking the warning urgently as
he did so. “There’s drift behind that meteor!”
A little cloud of fragments, of meteor-
debris, was flowing toward them like a loose
cataract of stone in the wake of the giant.

Positive or Negative? Whichever that drift
might be, it would be death to one of them,
Farrel knew. He and the Negative girl were
perilously close together as their impellers
hurled them hastily away.

The loose river of stone fragments flowed
past behind them, following the gravitational
suck of the big meteor. Wandering fragments
that strayed near Farrel made his flesh creep,
for they might be Negative.

Finally, he and the Negative girl paused a
little apart from each other in space.

“This is a devil’s nest of danger,” Farrel
warned. “We’d better each get back to our
own ships before we get hit.”

“Our ship is almost repaired,” came
Ylleen’s thought. “Is there any way we can
help you?”

Farrel made a gesture of helplessness.

“No way. You can’t give us spare jet-tubes
or anything else, for you and all your stuff
are Negative. But thanks for the offer.”

He looked around, but neither ship was
now in sight. There was nothing but the
great starry void, alive with moving crumbs
of light.

“Gorley!” he called into his space-phone.
“Get a direction fix on me and tell me which
way to come!”

There was no answer, though he called
repeatedly. A chill came over Farrel as he
realized what it meant.

NEVER THE TWAIN SHALL MEET

“I can’t reach my people with my short
range space-phone. We went further than I
thought, dodging that drift.”

“Nor can I reach my people!” Ylleen ex-
claimed. “Our telepathic amplifiers are also
built only for short-range work.”

Floating there a little apart, they looked at
each other in simultaneous dismay.

“We are lost!” the girl said. “We’ve no
idea where our ships are.”

Lost? Farrel felt the disastrous shock of it.
Lost here in a swarm that was laden with
Negative matter, and with his only compan-
ion a girl whom he couldn’t even touch with-
out annihilating them both!

He realized now, too late, what had hap-
pened. The meteor-swarm was a loose,
swirling net that rotated in currents of vary-
ing speed. The complicated currents had
swept them apart from the ships, and their
own impellers had quickly widened the dis-
tance.

Farrel desperately tried to determine di-
rection by the position of the Sun and inner
planets.

“The ships must be drifting somewhere in
that direction,” he said finally, pointing.
“They can’t be too far away from us yet.”

“And they must still be fairly near each
other, so we will go together,” Ylleen said.

They triggered their impellers and started
rocketing in that direction, at a respectful
distance from each other.

Glancing at the Negative girl as they
hurtled on, Farrel felt growing admiratioif.
Her lovely face was unafraid She -asked
him his name.

Her thought repeated it oddly, as a sound
like “Far-ul.”

“I wish there were some way our people
and worlds could know each other,” he told
her.

“Far-ul, so do I. Perhaps some day they
can. Our scientists have been trying to con-
vert Negative to Positive matter by first
attaining an intermediate neutral stage. But
they have not yet succeeded.”

“It is only out here in empty space that we
two could ever have met like this, without
destroying each other,” she added.

“Yes,” thought Farrel. “Positive is Posi-
tive, and Negative is Negative —

“ — and never the twain shall meet,

Till Earth and sky stand presently
At God’s great Judgment-Seat.”

“You quote one of your poets?” Ylleen’s
thought asked. “But it is true. For isn’t this

65

vastness of space like a mighty Judgment-
Seat?”

They hurtled on and on, frequently twist-
ing their heads to watch for the death that
was never far from them in the whirling
swarm.

Over another flowing cataract of stone
fragments, rocketing hastily upward to avoid
the gravitational suck of a ten-mile plane-
toid, they pressed steadily in the direction on
which Farrel had fixed.

Cold conviction of error crept upon him
after an hour. For they were still within the
swarm, but saw nothing of the two ships.

“We’d better swerve eastward,” he said,
worried by his discovery. “We’ve got to com-
pensate for the faster current as well as our
own deviation.”

“Far-ul, do you think we shall find the
ships before our oxygen and impeller-charges
give out?” Ylleen’s thought questioned.

Her face, and the tone of her telepathic
question, were calm and without a trace of
hysteria.

F ARREL’S heart warmed to her. He
wished he’d met a girl like her in his own
world, years ago. He mightn’t have had such
a lonely life.

“You’ve oxygen for a couple of hours yet?”
he asked anxiously. “So have I. We’ll surely
find them before that runs out. The ships
will certainly try to signal us.”

The worst of it was, he thought, that no
ordinary beacon signal would be visible in
this great swarm of sparks. And they were
completely out of space-phone range.

As they steadily wprked their dangerous
way on through the swarm, he asked Ylleen
eager questions about her world of Mars.

Her telepathed descriptions built in Par-
rel's mind a picture of moondrenched red
deserts, of little fairy cities of pink plastic,
of a girl who had longed to be a technician
and help in conquering space.

“Your Earth is not like that, Far-ul?” she
asked.

“No, though we too have deserts,” he said.
“But there are great green oceans too, and
blue skies and snowy mountains and great
plains.”

He found himself talking about his own
life, something he had never done before to
any girl.

Ylleen’s green eyes were understanding. “I
think you have been very lonely, Far-ul.”
“I’ve had my job to do the same as you,

66 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

the job of helping open up the other Positive
worlds,” Farr el said.

“We two are much alike,” Ylleen said.
“Far-ul, I am glad that we met!”

“And I!” he exclaimed impulsively.
“Ylleen, I wish you were a girl of my own
world.”

She smiled at him a little sadly.

“Would it make much difference now, when
the end for us may be near?”

“Don’t say that,” he begged her. “We’ll
get out of this yet. We’re nearing the outer
fringe of the swarm and must see the ships
soon.”

They had to use their impellers constantly
to dart aside from onrushing planetoids or
gleaming showers of fragments. Each of
them watched a hemisphere of the void for
danger as they worked forward.

Farrel’s weariness increased. He saw
Ylleen’s face white and strained inside her
helmet, but she flashed her brave smile when
she saw him looking.

Impelling himself too violently away from
an oblong stone mass of which Ylleen had
given warning, Farrel found himself only a
foot away from her.

“Far-ul, back!” she cried, using her own
impeller to recoil from him. She added shak-
ily then, “If you had touched me-— it would
have been awful!”

He knew, with an icy sensation along his
spine, what that would have meant. Instant
annihilation, for both of them.

His oxygen-tank needle was dropping
steadily back toward zero. The blasts of his
impeller seemed a little weaker, too.

They hurtled up to avoid a loose cluster of
football-sized rocks, then hovered over it and
looked ahead in appalled dismay.

They had come almost to the outer fringe of
the swarm. And neither of the two ships was
in sight anywhere in the starry vault!

“Ylleen, I’ve led you in the wrong direc-
tion,” Farrel said, in bitter self-reproach.
“I’ve thrown away your chances.”

“We shared the same risk,” she told him
steadily. “It’s not your fault.”

They floated, hovering over the cluster of
rocks without attempting further search. For
both knew that time was running out now.

Ylleen looked at him.

“If I must die, I am glad that it is this
way,” she said. “I am not afraid, with you.”

He saw in her face, across a dozen yards of
space, what he had never seen in any wom-
an’s face in all his lonely years. And he felt

a warm, bursting emotion released in him.

“Ylleen, listen!” he said huskily. “It’s mad-
ness to say this. But I never loved any girl
in my life, and I love you!”

Her soft green eyes shone with a wonderful
gladness. “Far-ul, is it true? For I know that
I love you. From the first, I have been wish-
ing that we might have been of the same
world, of the same kind.”

Wistful longing quivered in her white face.
“If we could have had but a little time to-
gether — if we could only have touched hands,
even! But we can’t, we can’t! All that we
can do together is to die.”

B LIND waves of heartbreak rose in Far-
rel as he realized the tragic trap that
fate had set for him.

To meet at last this girl he loved, and to be
doomed never even to touch her! To meet
here in tire solemn vault of space in a death-
trap from which they could not escape — it
was so hopeless!

“Ylleen, you have got to escape!” Farrel
exclaimed fiercely. “I’m not going to let you
die.”

A desperate expedient had flashed across
his mind. “Tell me, if we could signal your
ship would it be able to come for you?”

“I think so,” the Negative girl said won-
deringly. “Its turbine-repairs should be com-
pleted by now. But how can we signal?”

He pointed down at the cluster of rocks
below them, over which they were drifting.

“Some of those little meteorites must be
Positive, and some Negative. You can handle
the Negative ones, and I the others. If we
hurl two meteorites of opposing kinds to-
gether, the flash they make will be visible a
long way through the swarm. And a series
of such flashes — ”

Ylleen instantly understood. “But my ship,
my people, would not be able to help you,
Far-ul!”

Farrel lied quickly. “My own ship should
be repaired too, by ifbw. They too will see
and come.”

Ylleen did not flinch at the prospect of
entering the loose, drifting cluster below.
But she asked:

“How can we tell which meteors are Nega-
tive and which are Positive?”

Farrel had foreseen that necessity.

“Use your impeller-blast on each one as
you approach it, Ylleen. The atomic particles
from your blast are Negative — if they start a
sudden flare, the meteor is Positive.”

NEVER THE TWAIN SHALL MEET 07

He used the same system of detection him-
self, when they had gingerly moved down
into the cluster.

Here, danger was close all around them.
They were drifting with the cluster and its
stones seemed merely to be floating around
them, but a touch of the wrong kind of
meteor meant destruction.

Farrel turned his own impeller-blast on
the nearest meteor.

It flared dazzlingly, a rind of its surface
vanishing.

He backed hastily away, knowing it was
Negative. He tried another. The blast merely
fused the surface of this stone a little. Farrel
quickly advanced and seized it.

Ylleen had already grasped a Negative
meteor a little larger than his. They could
not throw them, floating free as they were.
So, at Farrel’s direction, they rocketed to-
ward each other with the stones, then at the
last moment released the two little meteors
and curved away.

The two meteors met and a soundless burst
of brilliance exploded in the void, instantly
vanishing.

“Now another!” sweated Farrel. “If they
only see one flash, they’ll think it merely a
natural collision.”

Again, and then again, they ventured down
into the cluster for opposing meteors and
hurled them together to cause brilliant
flashes.

The fourth time, Ylleen’s thought, came to
him in warning.

“Far-ul, I can do little more. My oxygen
will soon be gone.”

“If I could only give you some of mine!”
he answered agonized.

He couldn’t give her any. That was the
bitterest torment of all. His oxygen, like
everything else about him, would be instant
death for her.

Her eyes clung to his across the little space
that separated them.

“I am not afraid. Not even now, so long as
you are here!”

And then, out of the maze of swarming
sparks, a red flare of rocket-jets and an on-
rushing, oval black bulk loomed toward
them.

“It’s your ship!” Farrel cried out eagerly.
“They’ve seen, and have come for you!”

“But your ship has not come!” exclaimed
the Negative girl, fear in her voice.

“It will come soon,” lied Farrel. “Quick,
be ready to get aboard,”

“I will not leave you here to die alone!”
flamed Ylleen.

A wonderful, yearning emotion flooded
Farrel’s heart as they looked at each other
while the Negative ship loomed closer.

“There’s nothing you can do. Your ship,
your people, can’t help me. You must go,
Ylleen.”

“No, there’s still a chance!” she insisted.
“My people will know where your ship lies
in the swarm, Far-ul! Wait!”

H E KNEW that she was directing her
thought at the oncoming vessel whose
brake-jets were now slowing it to a stop.
He could vaguely sense the swift, amplified
telepathic question and answer.

“They do know where your craft lies, Far-
ul!” she told him. “They say your friends
have found a Positive meteor with the metals
that they need, and are repairing your vessel.
We can lead you there — ”

“No,” he told her quietly. “My impeller
is almost exhausted, Ylleen. And I can’t use
yours.”

“Far-ul, listen! Gravitation operates the
same with Positive as with Negative matter.
You can’t touch our ship — but its gravita-
tional suck can tow you through the swarm
to your own vessel, if you can keep from
contact with us.”

It was a wild, hairbreadth chance that was
offering itself, Farrel well knew. But he
seized on it.

“It could be done. And it’s the only way.
Tell them to try it, Ylleen.”

The big Negative vessel had come to a halt
near them, its airlock door open and waiting.
The gravitational pull of the big mass was
such that Farrel had to use his weakening
impeller to keep from floating toward it.

Ylleen went into the ship and then came
back out into the airlock near which Farrel
was floating.

“I have replenished my oxygen and I have
told them what they must do,” she said
tensely. “They will start gently.”

Even that gentle start almost shook Farrel
free of the Negative ship’s pull. From the
airlock, Ylleen’s space-suited figure watched,
stiff with anxiety for him.

Slowly, cautiously, the oval ship moved
through the swarm. Held in its gravitational
suck, Farrel found himself circling the mov-
ing vessel like a tiny, erratic satellite.

His impeller’s blast was fast dwindling, as
he used it to keep from a deadly contact

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

68

Twisting, squirming, frantically firing his
feeble little blasts, he was dragged on with
the Negative ship.

It seemed eternities, to Farrel. But at last
the oval craft groped its way above a meteor-
stream and into view of a long, torpedo-
shaped ship to which was lashed a big,
jagged meteor.

“The Thetis!” Farrel cried. “Gorley, can
you hear me?”

The mate’s voice came in a shout on his
space-phone. “Mother of Heaven! It’s the
Captain come back! Get our airlock open!”

The Negative ship had again slowed to a
drift. From its open airlock, Ylleen came
toward Farrel. She came so close that he
could clearly see her white, strained face.

“Ylleen, we’re safe,” he said huskily. “But
this has to be goodby.”

Her thought was quivering. “Must it be
goodby for always?”

“It must,” he said heavily. “We can never
visit each other’s worlds. But — I’ll never
love anyone else, Ylleen!”

“Far-ul, listen!” she cried. “We can at
least meet here again in space. Will you tneet
me here, an Earth-year from now?”

Farrel answered eagerly. “I will! We can
meet above this swarm, by radar rendezvous.
I’ll be here!”

He saw that her face was wet with tears as
she turned and impelled herself into the air-
lock of her ship.

In a few minutes, Farley was inside the
Thetis. Gorley and Binetti unscrewed his
helmet and ripped off his suit.

“How did you get back?” the stupefied
mate demanded. “And did you know that
we’ve got enough refractory metals out of
that big meteor outside to forge new jet-
tubes? And — ”

Farrel didn’t listen. He was looking out of
the window at the Negative ship, as it blasted
on its way out of the great swarm.

It was on its way home to Mars, to the
planet he could never visit. And Ylleen was
going with it. But he seemed to hear still in
his mind a fading telepathic cry.

“An Earth-year from now, Far-ul! I will
be here!”

****«•

On Ganymede’s busy spaceport, Gorley
tried a last vain expostulation as Farrel
walked toward his waiting space-speedster.

“In the year since we had that adventure in
the swarm, I thought you’d have recovered
your reason!” he stormed. “You can’t keep

that crazy rendezvous!”

“Ylleen will be there,” Farrel said steadily.
“And I am going to meet her.”

G ORLEY swore. “It was only the excite-
ment and danger and all that made you
think you were in love with her. And even
if you two do love each other, what good
will it do you to meet? You can’t even
touch her.”

“Just to see her again will be enough,”
Farrel told him. “I’m going, Red.”

His speedster took off with a rush and all
the long hours and days that he flew through
space it seemed to him that his heart was
calling him homeward.

When he finally brought his little craft
above that vast swarm of debris, he saw in-
stantly the other little ship that showed on
his radar screen. He was soon as near it as
he could safely go, and hurrying into his
space-suit.

Out from that other little ship to meet him
came another space-suited figure. On it came,
until they were but a few yards apart.

“Ylleen!” he cried, his voice throbbing. “I
knew you would come.”

For a time, they looked at each other. And
Ylleen’s face was pale and strange.

“Far-ul, I came because I do not want
to be separated from you again, ever.”

“But we can’t be together!” he protested,
torturedly. “Not in this life!”

“Would you risk death if we could come
together?” she asked him tensely.

“Of course I would!” he exclaimed. “But
how?”

She interrupted by rocketing toward him.
And her thought reached him like a sobbing
cry.

“Then come, Far-ul!”

He could not understand. If they touched,
they would vanish together in a blaze of
force and light.

But a deep impulsion, a perfect trust, sent
Farrel hurtling to meet her. Better to face
death than to go back to the old loneliness
and forget the only girl he had ever loved!

He saw her white face inside the helmet, as
they rushed toward each other. Their out-
stretched hands met!

And nothing happened!

They were drifting together there in space,
arms locked around each other, and nothing
had happened at all!

Farrel’s brain reeled. “Ylleen — what does
it mean? You’re not Negative, now?”

NEVER THE TWAIN SHALL MEET

“No, I am like you now!” came her mental
cry. “And we can be really together, Far-ul.”
She told him eagerly, “I told you that the
scientists of my world had been trying to con-
vert Negative into Positive matter by first
attaining an intermediate neutral stage. It
was hoped their experiments were near suc-
cess. That’s why I asked you to meet me
here.”

“I don’t understand!” Farrel marveled.
“How could they make Negative matter into
Positive?”

“By first making it neutral,” she reminded.
“They worked in a laboratory in free space,
handling matter by magnetic tractor-beams.
They found a way to bombard a piece of
Negative matter with streams of neutrons so
that a neutron replaced each negative proton
in that bit of matter.”

Farrel could dimly understand that.

“A neutron will displace a proton in a
nucleus, yes,” he said. “But since it has no
charge, it couldn’t hold the positive electrons
and they’d instantly rush free.”

“And when that happens, the neutron-
nuclei instantly emit negative electrons!” she
exclaimed.

“Of course!” Farrel cried. “And when a
neutron emits a negative electron, it instantly
itself becomes a positive proton! Positive
protons and negative elections — it would be
Positive matter then!”

“It was not quite as simple as that,” Ylleen
corrected. “Free negative electrons had to
be jetted into the matter at the same instant

6 ®

to complete the structure of its atoms. But
the whole process was almost instantaneous,
starting automatically when triggered by the
neutron bombardment.”

Farrel was staggered by the colossal nature
of that achievement of Martian science.

“And they did that to you, Ylleen?”

“I offered myself as the first living subject
for their process,” she said simply. “In their
laboratory in free space, they converted me
and my little ship into Positive matter.”

“But why didn’t you tell me at first?” he
cried.

Her eyes clung to his face.

“Far-ul, the whole process was theoret-
ically perfect but there might be an error.
I couldn’t let you risk facing death with me
unless you were willing.”

The risk that she too had taken, the perfect
willingness with which she’d accepted per-
petual exile from her own world, rushed
over him.

He held her more closely, even their space-
suits not lessening the wonder of actually
having her in his arms.

“Ylleen! Ylleen!”

She told him, presently, “It means that by
that process of conversion, men of our worlds
can visit each other in future. The two
civilizations can grow together. Perhaps,
even, whole worlds can be converted.”

He could not think of that future of many
worlds. Moving with her toward his ship, his
arms locked about her, he could only think of
the future that would be theirs alone.

Read Our Companion Magazine

STARTLING STORIES

NOW ON SALE— 15c AT ALL STANDS!

Now She Shops

“Cash and Carry”

Without Painful Backache

Many sufferers relieve nagging backache
quickly, once they discover that the real cause
of their trouble may be tired kidneys.

The kidneys are Nature’s chief way of taking
the excess acids and waste out of the blood.
They help most people pass about 3 pints a
day.

When disorder of kidney function permits
poisonous matter to remain in your blood, it
may cause nagging backache, rheumatic pains,
leg pains, loss of pep and energy, getting up

nights, swelling, puffiness under the eyes, head-
aches and dizziness. Frequent or scanty pas-
sages with smarting and burning sometimest
shows there is something wrong with your kid-
neys or bladder.

Don’t wait! Ask your druggist for Doan’s
Pills, a stimulant diuretic, used successfully by
millions for over 40 years. Doan’s give happy
relief and will help the 15 miles of kidney
tubes flush out poisonous waste from your
blood. Get Doan’s Pills, r 44».>

POCKET UNIVERSES

By MURRAY LEINSTER

When Latin-American tyrant Jose Guttierez visits New York,
political fugitive Luis Santos perfects a machine that can •
eliminate space — and exacts fearsome, fantastic vengeance!

CHAPTER I

Fantastic Device

W ITH Santos
looking at ,me
with a queer
fixed grin on his face I
did as he had asked me
to. He’d said something
about a diamagnetic de-
vice he wanted me to try,
so I picked up a screw-
driver from the floor —
Santos was always hope-
lessly untidy in his laboratory — and turned
on the switch he’d indicated. I meant, then,
to see what happened when I moved the
screw-driver nearer the copper-crystal-wire
contraption he had on his workbench near
the window. But I didn’t. Because the in-
stant I turned on the switch, the contraption
vanished.

My mouth dropped open.

“Open the switch, amigo mio,” Santos said
softly.

I opened it — and the contraption was back
on the bench. It was. a weird-looking
thing, that instrument — a copper bar center,
and crystal rods, and wire wrapped around
it in a distinctly lunatic pattern. It looked
like Rube Goldberg might have designed it.
But it was certainly real and certainly solid.
I reached out my hand to touch it. It was
there, all right!

Santos spoke again, in a dry voice.

“I think that you saw the same thing I
did. Yes. So now I am not insane. Or
rather, I know that we are all crazy together
to think that we know anything! Let us go
and have lunch. I have achieved a great
triumph.”

“Hold on!” I said violently. “Let me do
that again.”

I threw the switch. The copper-crystal-
wire device ceased to be. Now that I was

not taken altogether by surprise, though, I
could see that where it had been wasn’t al-
together normal. There was an oddity about
the space it had occupied. It wasn’t blurred,
exactly, and it wasn’t exactly distorted. But
it hurt my eyes to look through it.

I gulped, and turned off the switch a sec-
ond time. The object was solidly back, just
where it had been. Santos had one of his
queer looking arc lights focused on the table.
Its rays made everything visible. The de-
vice was there, all right!

“W-wait a minute!” I said, shaken. “You
can’t do this to me! What is it, Santos?
What the devil happened?”

“It disappears,” said Santos. He was a
queer, dried-up little runt of a Latin-Ameri-
can, and I liked him very much. “It tem-
porarily ceases to be. I am as much dis-
turbed as you are.”

I THREW the switch a third time. The
blasted thing vanished. I reached toward
it and stopped, cautiously.

“Is it dangerous to touch when it’s turned
on?”

“Try,” said Santos. He shrugged until his
shoulders seemed almost to go up to his ears.
“I have tried. I cannot do it.”

The peculiar grin came on his face again.
It seemed to be compounded of amazement,
and wonder, and pride, and a look of startled
but very deep satisfaction.

I reached for the thing I knew must be
there. It was invisible, of course — which was
fantastic enough in itself — but there has been
a lot of theorizing about invisibility. If one
can bend light- rays around an object, it will
become invisible.

There are conditions of refraction in which
an opaque object cannot be seen. And you
can print two dots side by side on a sheet of
paper, and hold the paper a certain distance
from your eyes and one of them disappears—
until you move the paper. Invisibility is
hard enough to imagine, but you can con-

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

72

cede that it might be brought about — just
possibly could be managed. So I reached for
that copper-crystal-wire contrivance.

My hand went through the place where it
had been. I felt nothing. I reached around
it and swept my arm toward myself, to be
sure of including it in the sweep. And then
I came very close to fainting. Because — this
is going to be hard to take — I didn’t feel any-
thing in the least peculiar, but suddenly my
hand was away over to the left, a good foot
and a half farther from my elbow than was
customary, and there was a space between
my wrist and forearm.

I made what must have been a strangled,
squawking noise and stumbled backward.
And there was my hand on the end of my
arm, just as it always has been. But I felt
chilly all over and there was cold sweat run-
ning down my face.

Luis Santos looked at me with the same
queer gleam in his eyes.

“Precisamente,” he said, nodding. “I have
felt all of this. It is extremely upsetting.
Think how I felt when I found out that I
had made it!” He stood up. “I think we had
better go to lunch. A cup of coffee would be
good for our nerves.”

But I turned the switch off, and the thing
was back, and I turned it on and it wasn’t
there, and I felt that queer stinging effect in
my eyes. But I didn’t try to touch it again.

“Listen, Santos!” I said shakily. “This is
too screwey. What is it?”

He shrugged again, and his face had the
same queer startled expression on it.

“I designed a diamagnet,” he told me.
“There is no such thing. There cannot be
such a thing. But I evolved a theory which
said that if I did such-and-such things, a dia-
magnet would result. I checked the theory,
step by step. Every step was sound. So I
made it. If it proved to be a diamagnet, I
reasoned, I would have proved certain ac-
cepted principles of physics to be false.

“On the other hand, if it did not prove to
be a diamagnet, certain other accepted prin-
ciples would prove to be false. And I was
shocked to observe that both are true.

“A diamagnet cannot exist. But this de-
vice should be one. Both theories are cor-
rect. The device without energy is not a
diamagnet, so it can exist. When it is, it be-
comes a diamagnet, which cannot exist, so
it ceases to be. Then when the switch is
thrown off it is no longer a diamagnet, so it
can exist again. It is very upsetting and I am

much scrambled in my brains.”

He stood up.

“I think that I need to talk of something
else,” he said, and now I realized that Santos
was as much shaken as I was. “I am of a
very select company, amigo. There was Gal-
vani, and there was Faraday, and there have
been a few others. Now I am one of them,
because I have found a new principle of
science. But it is not a comfortable discov-
ery, to learn that two principles can flatly
contradict each other and both be right.”

I turned the switch off and on, and off and
on. The complicated-seeming gadget was
alternately present and solid and real, and
completely absent and non-existent. It looked
like a conjuring trick. But I remembered my
hand floating in thin air, a good foot and a
half farther from my elbow than it should
have been. And I shivered.

T HEN Luis Santos took my arm. He was
a little man, as I said— barely above my
shoulder. He was lean, and his face was
wrinkled, and he had a nasty scar which
began just above his collar and went down
his neck out of sight.

He led me firmly toward the door and
lunch. I went along almost dazedly. It may
sound commonplace enough to hear about
but, when something like that actually hap-
pens to you, it sets butterflies to crawling in
your stomach.

I kept looking at my hand, which had ap-
parently been separated from my body. I
moved it feverishly, reassuring myself that
it was still there. I began to try to explain
to myself that it wasn’t so — that it hadn’t
happened.

I wish it hadn’t.

Thinking back, it still doesn’t make sense.
Santos was a Hondaguan, from the little Re-
public of Hondagua down below the Equator.
He was Latin-American — pure Spanish as
far as I could tell — and you don’t expect
Latin-Americans, somehow, to be scientists.

You think of them and of revolutions and
politicians, and if you know a few of them
you think of poetry and literary effusions and
highly intellectual and not very meaty talk.
But science, no. Facts seem to hamper most
of them.

Even Santos had seemed less than eon- '
structive. I knew his work, of course, He
seemed to take a fiendish delight in taking
some new and solemnly announced discov-
ery and repeating all the described experi-

POCKET UNIVERSES

ments with meticulous care, and then pub-
lishing a painstaking account of the results —
which demolished the discovery. People
cursed him. But if he said that a certain ex-
periment, conducted in precisely this fashion,
produced exactly that result — it was so. He
had that much reputation, at least.

For the rest, without making any mystery
about himself he was more or less obscure.
He’d come to the United States, graduated
from a very good technical school here, and
gone back to Hondagua. Ten years later he’d
turned up in New York, wrinkled and al-
ready dried up, and had set to work pains-
takingly to demolish the work of other men.
Until now he’d never announced any original
work of his own. What he’d done in the ten
years he was back home, I didn’t know. He
never spoke of it.

He led me down to the dining room in
the Institute, and we took seats at a table
facing each other. We both looked as if we’d
seen a ghost.

“First, we lunch,” said Santos firmly. “We
think about something else. I am afraid of
that thing. So we will talk about other mat-
ters until we have had our coffee.”

But I wasn’t much good at talking, just
then. I had seen a solid substance cease to
be, and I had seen a quite impossible condi-
tion of space which hurt my eyes, and I’d
passed my hand through it and my hand was
separated by a good foot and a half from
the rest of my arm, and seemed not to have
noticed its own aberration. I looked at my
fingers and moved them painstakingly. Of
course nothing had happened to them but the
impossible, but I couldn’t talk.

“The situation seems to call for desperate
measures,” said Santos, smiling faintly. “Did
I ever tell you about my home in Hondagua?”

It was the only subject outside of what I’d
seen that I could really have listened to, be-
cause as I said, he was in a mild way a
mystery. I knew he didn’t like to talk about
his home. But now he did. He knew we
both needed to stop thinking of that pre-
posterous gadget of copper and glass and
wire up on his wosk-table. So since I
couldn't* help him, he helped me.

He gave me a picture of his home in
Hondagua with crisp words that painted
drooping palm-trees and a sky that was too
blue for anybody to believe, and a sea that
lapped against a shore of white sand. There
was hot sunshine, and lazy comfort, and an
infinitude of reasons for not doing anything

73

in particular and being quite happy about it.
There was a white-walled, sprawling haci-
enda, with jasmine growing all about it, and
barefooted Indian servants, and a roofed-
over well.

“The water from that well, amigo, does not
taste like water from a hydrant,” said San-
tos parenthetically. “It is much superior. And
there was a smiling dark-haired girl. . .

Santos stopped short.

After a moment he went on again. He was
doing it for me, because I was not in a very
good mental state and he wanted to distract
me. You often read of fantastic scientific
devices, in fiction. But when you actually
see one, it hits hard!

CHAPTER II
Elastic Space

S ANTOS talked about his horses, and his
dogs, and the lazy drives into the sleepy,
lazy town of Niente, and of the house in the
capital city of Hondagua which sprawled over
half a city block and had been added to by
his forefathers until nobody on earth could
ever have made a plan of it. And the an-
cient, creaking, unbelievably elaborate bar-
ouche in which it had been the custom of
the ladies of his family to pay solemn, offi-
cial calls for uncounted years. It was ridicu-
lous, that barouche. Why, once the dark-
haired girl —

He stopped, and sweated. Then he man-
aged to smile.

“I think you are thinking of something
else now, eh?” he asked. “I shall look at the
paper for a moment.”

Table service in the Institute restaurant
is not swift. It is a tradition, together with
the stodgy dinginess of the corridors. We
waited to have our coffee brought us, and he
picked up the newspaper that had been laid
on our table. He began to glance at the
headlines. His hands shook a little. He
wasn’t thinking of the paper. But his eyes
must have taken in some of the print, be-
cause suddenly he trembled violently.

He laid down the paper. He was very pale
indeed. He saw my expression. He smiled
at me, but his eyes were very strange.

“I think we are both cured of thinking of
that thing upstairs,” he said quietly. “I see

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

U

in today’s newspaper that the Persidente of
Hondagua is to come to this city on a good-
will visit to the United States. That would
cure me of thinking of anything!”

He picked up his coffee-cup. He hadn’t
noticed its arrival. He drank some of it, but
some of it spilled, and his face looked thin
and pale and desperate.

“Now I shall go back to thinking of my
diamagnet with relief,” he observed remotely.
“It is much easier to bear.”

But suddenly, as if he could not help it,
he told me. His voice was savagely bitter.
It hurt to hear him.

Hondagua was one of those nations which
paid strictly lip-service to democracy. Its
president — Jose Manuel Guttierez — had been
in office for eighteen years. During those
eighteen years there had not been the pre-
tense of an election. There had not been the
pretense of justice in the courts or honesty
in its officials. Worse, there had not been
a pretense of decency on the part of the ab-
solute and arbitrary presidente.

The dark-haired girl had been Santos’
wife. She had attracted the attention of the
saddle-colored Guttierez. He’d blandly in-
vited her to the Presidential palace. She did
not go. She disappeared — kidnapped by
members of the presidential guard. ,

“I was away, hunting,” said Santos, thin-
lipped. “When I heard, I went mad. I went
to the palace with a revolver, and I was shot
down on the ground that I had attempted to
assassinate the Presidente. That was my in-
tention, but I had no opportunity. I was left
for dead, but I did not die.” Then he added;
“Unfortunately ! ”

He paused for a moment.

“My wife, also, was dead,” he said evenly.
“When I recovered, I began a revolution.
There were enough of people who were as
desperate as I! For three months we man-
aged to keep the field. We did some damage,
to people who undoubtedly hated Guttierez
as much as we did. But it was quite hope-
less. We became hunted fugitives. Once
they caught forty of my men alive, promising
them their lives if they surrendered. I my-
self heard the volleys by which they were
executed. I was hiding in a peon’s house not
half a mile away. Ultimately, just twelve of
us got out of the country.”

Then he spread out his hands, smiling
bitterly.

“I planned to go back some day and
strangle that Guttierez with my own hands.

But already a thousand men had died in my
revolt And — my men did not always behave
like Sunday-school scholars. If I could have
been sure of killing him — that would have
been one thing. But to cause the deaths of
other men, and perhaps the shame of other
women, to revenge the injuries I had re-
ceived, that I could not manage. And as a
result — ” his eyes showed that he sneered
at himself “ — I have become a great man! I
have made a diamagnet, amigo mio, I have
made a thing which cannot exist and which
ceases to be the instant its existence begins,
while Guttierez here visits as the president
of a friendly nation!”

I T WAS now my turn to try to draw his
mind away from what he was thinking
about.

“You’ll probably be sorry you told me
that,” I said bluntly, “So I’m going to forget
it unless you mention it again. But that dia-
magnet isn’t the trifle you think. If you'll
go up to your lab again, I think we’ll find
out that it is important, after all, and well
worth a man’s life to find out. You com-
pleted it as recently as you say?”

“Half an hour before you came in,” he told
me without interest, “I turned it on for the
first time, then. Very well. Let us go.”

I went back to his laboratory with him. I
talked enthusiastically of unstated suspicions
I began to have of its capabilities and sig-
nificance. I really got him to think of it
again.

And again I wish I hadn’t.

When we got to the lab, the first question,
of course, was what became of the contrap-
tion when it was turned on and vanished.

We took a wooden rod and poked into the
space it had occupied. There wasn’t any-
thing there but an extraordinary optical
effect that told you something was wrong
when you looked at it. The rod came out —
surprisingly far — on the other side. Then I
drew the rod bodily through the queer ap-
pearance, holding its two ends. It was the
same thing I’d done with my arm.

The rod was about a yard long. I pulled
it to me, and suddenly it pushed my hands
apart I hate to admit it, but the hair stood
up on top of my head, because the rod was
solid, and it was expanding violently.

Then I saw that there was an empty space
in the middle. It looked as if there were two
rods. But the two ends felt as if there were
only one.

POCKET UNIVERSES 75

I continued to pull it toward me, and
abruptly it shrank to its normal length and
the open space in the middle vanished, and
it was a single piece of wood again.

Santos fiddled with the scar on his neck.
Suddenly he nodded his head.

“I think that that explains everything,”
he said coolly. “Look, amigo!”

He put the rod back through the queer
optical condition. As seen from the side, the
rod was a foot and a half longer than it had
been, and there was an empty space a foot
and a half wide in the middle. But when
Santos pushed the rod to and fro the gap
between the two sections remained the same,
and in the same place, but the relative
lengths of the two sections changed. Now
there was one inch in the piece on the left-
hand side, and now a foot, and now two, and
now one inch again.

And then Santos pulled it slowly, and that
one inch shrank to half and a quarter and
a bare shred. . . . And he had the end of
the stick out of the hazy place, a foot and
a half from where it had been the fraction
of a second before.

“Ah, yes!” said Santos. “And this will
prove all of it.”

He spread out a newspaper two sheets
wide, and lowered it over the appearance.
A hole appeared in the middle of the news-
paper. It was not torn. It simply appeared,
and the paper wrinkled and buckled on
every side to make up for the hole. He
raised the paper and the hole closed up flaw-
lessly. He lowered it until an almost circu-
lar hole a foot and a half in diameter was in
the middle.

“Turn off the switch,” he said.

I did. There was one of the sharpest, nasti-
est snapping sounds you ever heard, and that
ungodly copper-and-glass contrivance was
sticking through the newspaper and there
was a cloud of fine paper-dust sifting through
the air.

“Pero si,” said Santos calmly. “That is it.
But of course. How could it be otherwise?”

He took out a cigarette and lighted it. He
did not show any triumph or any pleasure in
having found an explanation.

“You are right, amigo mio,” he said in-
stead, in detached tones. “This is important.
It is worth the Nobel Prize, at least. I have
forgotten who remarked that this is a mad
world, but it is so. Now I understand why I
was afraid of this thing. It is the sort of
thing to make one’s hair prickle.”

E GRINNED at me mirthlessly.

“Perhaps I will become an eminent
Hondaguan scientist, now. Guttierez may
give me the Order of Sansovino, First Class.
He may invite me home. And he would ex-
press great grief if a deplorable accident
caused my death within the hour of my
landing. It is amusing.”

But he did not look as if he were amused.

“What the devil?” I demanded. “What
happened then?”

He blew a cloud of smoke.

“The theory is simple. Two things can-
not occupy the same space at the same time.
They tried to. We speak of paramagnetic
and diamagnetic substances as if there were
magnetic and anti-magnetic fields of force.
But we also speak of positive and negative
electricity. Yet we know that there is no
positive electricity, there is only a deficiency
of electrons which are negative charges. So
there is no anti-magnetism in space as we
know it, but only a deficiency of magnetrons
in certain substances like copper and bis-
muth.”

“But you said — ”

“That I made a diamagnet,” said Santos.
“And so I did. But it cannot exist in our
space. Therefore, in order to exist, it must
create a space which is different from ours,
in which it can exist. And this it does. That
much is clear, I think, from the experiments
we made only now.”

“Hold hard!” I protested. “You’re suggest-
ing that the thing goes into a sort of fourth
dimension?”

“No,” said Santos with an abrupt flagging
of interest. “Into a closed universe. A tiny
pocket-sized universe of its own. Exactly
the same thing, say, as an atom so heavy
that it collapses space upon itself. There
would be no way to detect such an atom. But
we can detect this thing, because the space
which ceases to be is so large.”

He sat down and fixed his eyes somberly
on the opposite wall. I blinked. Then it be-
gan to make sense. There was a long silence
in the barren-looking room which was San-
tos’ laboratory. But I need to see things,
sometimes, before they are firmly in my
head.

So I went over to the table where Santos
wrote up his notes and picked up a rubber
band and a paper-clip. It was a red rubber
band, I remember.

I slipped the paper-clip on it and stretched
it between the thumb and forefinger of my

TB THRILLING WONDER STORIES

hand. Then — feeling very foolish— I made
two ink-spots on the rubber. They were a
couple of inches from each other, with the
paper-clip in between.

The paper-clip represented the copper-
glass-wire contrivance, and the ink-spots
two arbitrary places on the table. Then I
twisted the paper-clip so that it wound up
the rubber band about itself. It stretched.
The ink-spots approached each other. Pres-
ently they touched. Then I let go the paper-
clip and everything slipped back. They were
far apart again, with the clip in between.

That was it, exactly. Einstein has proved
that space is elastic. The rubber band was
also elastic. When the paper-clip — repre-
senting the weird object on the work-table —
wrapped the rubber band which represented
space about itself, why, presently there
wasn’t any rubber band or space between
the two dots. But when I released it, every-
thing went back to normal and there was
space and a metal object between them.

The diamagnet wrapped space about it-
self. It absorbed space. The reason one’s
eyes hurt when looking at the place where
space had been absorbed was that they tried
to focus impossibly. Objects behind the van-
ished gadget were nearer than objects which
weren’t behind it. They hadn’t moved, of
course. But a certain amout of space — of dis-
tance — had been removed.

“This,” I said presently, “means more
than I pretended to think, Santos.”

He shrugged. For years he had kept so
busy that he could not remember his home
in Hondagua, or his wife, or the tragedy
which had made revolution and bloodshed
when he fought bitterly for vengeance. Per-
haps, especially, he had kept busy so he
could not remember the failure of his venge-
ance. But the coming of the Presidente of
Hondagua to New York upon a good-will
visit — the one man in the world whose life
was forfeit to him!

I FOUND a couple of test-tube holders in
the dusty wall cupboard. I put them a
couple of feet apart, with Santos’, gadget in
between. I threw the .switch and the thing
disappeared.

I got behind one of the holders and looked
at the other one. It was only six inches
away. A foot and a half of the distance be-
tween them had disappeared.

I moved to the side of the table — and they
were two feet apart. But in a straight line

from one to the other, there was only six
inches. Space had vanished between them,
but not between anything else. The space
between them had been rolled up and
wrapped around Santos’ invention.

I turned the switch oft and everything
was normal again. But I began to tremble.

“I say, Santos,” I said quietly. “Does it
occur to you that you are the richest man in
the world? This thing is going to make rail-
roads and bridges and steamer-lines look
rather silly. It’s going to make mines obso-
lete, and I suspect it will do things to the
law of the conservation of energy. If you
can make this confounded thing create its
own pocket universes in reasonably obliging
shapes, you’re going to remake civilization!”

As I have said, he was rather small and
quite dried-up and not at all impressive to
look at. He looked pathetic, with his face all
pinched with hatred of the man who was to
be an honored guest of the nation and the
city. He tried to listen to me. I think he
really did. But all he could do was manage
an artificial, apologetic smile.

“ Amigo mio,” he said listlessly,” I cannot
think but so much of this matter now. Later,
perhaps. At the moment it is necessary for
me to consult with some of my friends. Not
about this, but Guttierez, now that he is
away from his palace and his guards.”

There wasn’t even any excitement in his
tone. There was hatred in it, though — hatred
so terrible and so long -continued that it
wasn’t even emotional but was as natural and
as inevitable and as implacable as the need
to breathe. I didn’t really see that then. I
sympathized with him abstractedly, but my
brain was on fire with the possibilities I saw
in closed universes like the one his diamagnet
would create.

I made him listen to me. I explained, ur-
gently, some of the possibilities I could see.
He might perhaps never have thought of any
actual application of his discovery. I saw what
it could do in a practical way. I made him
see it too.

Now I wish I hadn’t done that, either.

CHAPTER III

A Larger and Better Machine

EXT morning the news headlines had
nothing about the President of Honda-

POCKET UNIVERSES 77

gua. It hadn’t been an important story, any-
how. It had been printed somewhere down
on the bottom of Page One, and it was there
because Hondagua had rated a good many
headlines during the war because of its con-
sistently pro-Axis policy. It had to be
dragooned into breaking off relations with
Germany, and it had been definitely half-
hearted in ostensible efforts to clear the coun-
try of German spies. The news that its presi-
dent was in the United States had a sardonic
aspect that made it news for one edition.

I have a habit, though, of reading editorials.
Perhaps because I deal in unarguable facts
so much that I like opinions that are debat-
able. And there was an editorial in my paper
on the visit of President Guttierez. It re-
ferred to a communication in its letters-to-
the-editor column.

That letter was signed by a Spanish name
I did not know. It was written with the pol-
ished irony of a Spanish-speaking intellec-
tual, and it was purest dynamite. It made
points which bit. It pointed out that Guttierez
had seized power and suppressed all electoral
privileges in Hondagua. It also mentioned
that he had twelve- times threatened war
against the sister-republics around Honda-
gua. And then it added that the country
was seething with revolt almost openly fos-
tered by its neighbors for their own security.

The Presidente had left Hondagua— in fact
had been able to leave it- — only after elabo-
rate negotiations with the surrounding coun-
tries and the elements opposing him. He had
agreed to call elections and leave the country
before they came off. His departure, in fact,
had been in the nature of an abdication in the
face of revolt and foreign war. He’d been
allowed to get away simply to save the blood-
shed he could have caused by resistance.

Newspaper articles in Havana, Bogota, and
other Spanish-American cities were cited as
verification. And then the letter pointed out
that the private fortunes of many Axis lead-
ers had been cached in Hondagua during the
war, fortunes which those leaders would now
never be able to claim.

It added that the baggage of the Presidente
of Hondagua would, of course, be endowed
with diplomatic immunity and passed through
the customs without examination. Then it
suggested delicately that the visit of the
Senor Don Jose Manuel Guttierez was not
so much a gesture of good-will between sov-
ereign nations as the getaway of a bandit
with all the loot he had been able to steal or

inherit from enemies of the United Nations.

The editorial comment on the letter was on
a high plane of impartiality, but the visit of
the Presidente smelled to high heaven im-
mediately.

I didn’t go into Santos’ laboratory until late
in the afternoon. It had occurred to me that,
after all, the discovery was Santos’ and I
hadn’t any right to butt in on it. Yet, I
couldn’t think of very much else.

If you could diminish the distance between
two test-tube holders by a foot and a half
without moving either of them, you ought to
be able to do innumerable things that by the
normal laws of nature were impossible. After
all, that’s what civilization is — tricking
physics to one’s own will.

But this was more important than the
harnessing of steam! It was more important
than the use of electricity! It would rate, in
future ages, at least equal with the invention
of the wheel or even of writing. I foresaw
a world remade and even the conquest of
the stars!

It was Santos’ discovery and only his, but —
well — I managed to leave him alone until late
afternoon. Then I couldn’t stay away any
longer. On the way to the Institute, feeling
very foolish, I stopped in a toy store and
bought some marbles.

He seemed glad to see me. He even looked
reproachful.

“You were so enthusiastic yesterday, amigo
mio, that I looked for you earlier,” he said
gently. “I need your viewpoint; your in-
genuity. I have a peculiar turn of mind. To
me, this seems fascinating because of its pos-
sible effect upon the history of thought. To
you it means effects upon the history of
civilization. That viewpoint is important. I
should have it.”

T HE gadget of the day before was no
longer on the table, but there were two
or three odd contrivances in its place and he
was assembling something else.

It was a strange place for the future of
humanity to be formed in, I thought. Labora-
tories in the Institute are not luxurious. This
was cramped, and the walls needed painting,
and it was definitely untidy. And of course
Santos was not the stately figure the moul-
ders of civilization have always seemed to be.
But —

“What have you done?” I asked feverishly.
“I want to know if you can make those pocket
universes of different shapes, or if they have

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

78

to be globular. Everything depends on that.
Nearly everything, anyhow!”

He nodded toward the table. There was a
cage-like thing which bore a definite family
likeness to the apparatus that had almost
driven me out of my mind the day before.
This was about three inches in diameter and
three feet long. Santos was working on some-
thing quite similar, but shorter and with a
fair-sized empty space inside.

“That one,” he told me, nodding at the
three-foot object, “makes a cylindrical pocket
universe. It is also a movable device. This
morning I put a mouse in the space here — ”
he indicated the one he was working on “ —
and closed space about it I released the little
creature as a reward for surviving. I am
making another change in it, but that is all
I have done. I will show you the cylinder.”
He put down the thing in his hands and
went briskly to the work-table. He lifted
the thing that looked rather like an over thick
walking-cane made of lattice-work. There
were thin glass rods included in it.

“See?” he said, well pleased. “I learned
much from the original. I have been able
to simplify. Now observe!”

He had a handle on it, with a switch. A
wire ran to a power-socket. He turned the
switch with a flick of his finger. The lattice
walking-stick vanished, all but the handle.
He passed his hand through the space where
it had been. I had a horrible, sickening jolt
when I saw the ends of his fingers seemingly
jump three inches from the rest of his hand
and then slip back into place unharmed. I
knew what it was, of course. Along their
length there wasn’t any space between them.
From the side there seemed to be.

“This, I think, is what you suggested yes-
terday,” said Santos. “It is a cylinder of
other-space. A closed space or a pocket uni-
verse which is cylindrical.”

He turned the handle and that peculiar look
of wrongness moved. He seemed to rest the
end of it on the floor. I went over, and my
heart came into my throat.

The wildest, wierdest of all my visions was
quite true. The thing did absorb space. It
was three feet long.

When you put one end at the level of the
floor and looked lengthwise through it,
where the thing was, the floor was three feet
nearer! I put my finger on what appeared
to be a three-inch disk of planking at waist-
level.

It felt solid. It was. I was touching the

floor without bending over. I fumbled in my
pocket and laid a coin on that seemingly —
but not actually — upraised disk of planking.

Santos nodded, and turned off the switch.

Then the lattice-work cane was back in
place, and down on the floor, without bounc-
ing and without dropping, there was the coin.
He turned the switch on again and I picked
it up — without stooping — and broke out in a
cold sweat.

“That’s what I thought,” I said shakily.
“Lay that thing down sideways on your
work-table. I — stopped and bought some
marbles.”

He laid it down, and I showed him what I
meant. With trembling hands I set up a sort
of trough of cardboard, bent into a V, point-
ing into the end of the lattice-work de-
vice.

He turned it on. I rolled a marble down the
trough so that it would run into the extra-
ordinary optical look of wrongness, at one
end. The rolling marble reached the limit of
the pocket universe — and rolled away from
the other end of it!

It did not pass through the space in be-
tween, because in that line there wasn’t any
space in between! It had been rolled up and
closed in upon itself. It simply wasn’t any
more.

O NE by one, I let every one of the
marbles roll down the trough, and one
by one they appeared with the utmost non-
chalance and the same momentum a yard
down the table.

I took out my handkerchief and wiped my
face. I was sweating. My teeth chattered.

“Suppose, instead of something three
inches in diameter and three feet long,” I
said, “you make one of those things six
feet in diameter and ten miles long! You
put one end at Forty-second Street and the
other up in Yonkers. You turn it on. It
doesn’t exist any longer. It doesn’t block
traffic. We walk right through where it was
built. The space where it was has ceased to
exist.

“And then suppose somebody walks into
the Yonkers end of it? He steps with one step
from Yonkers to Forty-second Street, be-
cause along that line and only along that
line, there isn’t any space in between! Sup-
pose you build one of these things aeross the
continent. It’d cause miracles!”

Santos looked at me and grinned. But it
wasn’t an excited grin. It was a sympathetic

POCKET UNIVERSES 79

grin. It was a pleased grin. He actually
seemed to be thinking much more of my en-
thusiasm than of his own triumph.

“Ah, yes!” he said. “That is true. That is
rapid transit carried to the point where there
is no longer such a thing as speed. If all goes
well, amigo mio, you shall have full conduct
of such practical matters as making it pos-
sible to go instantly not only from Forty-
second Street to Yonkers, but also to Wee-
hauken and Kokomo. I shall stand back and
admire.”

“Even in time we’ll be able to make it a
step to Hondagua!” I said feverishly.

Then his grin froze. But he did not say a
word. He simply went back to the alterations
he was making on the pocket-universe gen-
erator in which he had put a mouse. His face
looked peaked and bitter, just because I’d
mentioned Hondagua, which reminded him
of the Presidente. I’d put his mind back on
his own past.

I wish I hadn’t done that!

CHAPTER IV
Trouble for Guttierez

T HE President of Hondagua came to New
York two days later, and he was news.
It wasn’t the regular sort of news, either, or
the regular polite newspaper tributes to an
admirable if small-sized good neighbor south
of the Equator.

That first letter to the editor of my paper
had started things. Such letters don’t often
mean much. This one pointed straight to a
story. The other papers picked it up. And
then they spread that story all over the New
York front pages, and it went on from there.

One paper headlined its story, “Hondaguan
Fuehrer in New York.” The mildest of them
called him “Dictator,” which is a nasty word
these days.

They had dug into the perfectly available
facts about the administration of Hondagua,
and they exposed the Presidente with beauti-
ful clarity as a fascist, a grafter, a murderer
and a cheap crook who had just sold out his
followers at home in exchange for a getaway
for himself and his loot.

A Senator got up in Congress and attacked
the Administration for letting him enter the
country, in spite of the fact that he was still

legally the chief executive of a friendly
nation. There was a terrific row because his
baggage had, by diplomatic courtesy, been
allowed to enter the country without cus-
toms inspection.

Instead of a perfunctory account of his ar-
rival and a non-enthusiastic story of his
greeting by the Mayor, there was a corps
of reporters and cameramen to meet him,
there were pictures of him on every front
page in town, and the stories were blistering.

He went to the Walderbilt Hotel, where a
suite had been reserved for him and his at-
tendants, and where the Hondaguan flag was
promptly hung out with due ritual to indi-
cate his presence. And the story didn’t die
there. The papers kept leg-men on the job
and every detail of his activities splashed
the front page.

He was an inordinately fat man, swarthy,
with the worst hard-boiled look I’ve ever
seen in a half-tone picture. He posed in uni-
form and a saber, with vast dignity, for the
press photographers. Apparently he couldn’t
read English and none of his attendants dared
tell him what was being printed about him.
His attendants were a motley crew, them-
selves.

The afternoon papers described in detail
the row in the service section of the Walder-
bilt when some of his uniformed attendants
insisted on remaining with his baggage every
minute and even riding up in the service
elevators with it. There were pictures. One
photographer had irritated such a guard to
the point where his picture was snapped with
his hand on the revolver in his holster and a
menacing scowl on his face.

Next morning the morning papers carried
the story of another row. The Presidente had
ordered feminine entertainers sent up to his
suite for what was apparently to have been a
party. They didn’t appear and he raised Cain.
But then somebody apparently got nerve
enough to tell him what the papers were
saying, and he shut up like a clam. He passed
twenty-four hours in his suite without once
peeping out of it or making a single request
for service that the newspapers could use.

But they didn’t let up on him. They re-
published pictures of the armed guard over
his baggage. They made estimates of the
amount of money and loot the Nazis had
sent to Hondagua, and they credited him
with having stolen all of it.

Then they estimated the amount of money
he had managed to extort in his own country

SO THRILLING WONDER STORIES

while ruling it, and they asked if that many
millions of dollars had been brought in un-
der the cloak of diplomatic immunity, and
would he be allowed to get away with it.

The election which was to choose his suc-
cessor hadn’t yet been held, but it was re-
ported that Hondagua was a madhouse. There
was already a provisional government in
power which ignored Guttierez’s legal status,
and every boat leaving the country was
packed, and every packtrail out of the nation
crowded, with former followers of the Presi-
dents trying to get away from retribution.

1 WENT into Santos’ laboratory, bringing
him some stuff he’d asked me to get. I
found six other Latin-Americans sitting
in there listening as he talked to them in
Spanish. They turned poker-faces to me
when I came in, but Santos introduced me —
all Spanish names like Calderon and Ybarra
and so on — and they relaxed. Then he ex-
plained expansively to me.

“These are my old friends and comrades in
arms, amigo,” he said. “We had lost touch,
but the coming of Guttierez to New York
made us seek each other out. Now, with the
storm of newspaper comment, we have de-
cided that something must happen to him.
The American Government will surely take
away his wealth. Probably he will be ar-
rested and extradited to Hondagua as a com-
mon criminal. I would like to be there when
the mob gets hold of him!”

The faces of the other six went studiedly
expressionless. I wouldn’t like anybody to
hate me that much!

“We met here for political debate,” Santos
went on with evident pleasure. “I invited
them also to witness a demonstration of my
discovery. I fear that they look upon it as
conjuring, but it pleases me to show off first
to my countrymen.”

I put down the stuff I’d brought — mainly
a lot of those small storage B-batteries they
used to use in portable radios. They’re hard
to find, nowadays. And Santos staged his
show.

He went through all the stuff I’d seen, and
then he pulled a new one. He’d evidently
put aside the small contrivance I’d last seen
him working on, and he’d made a gadget —
a diamagnet or whatever it ought to be
called — a thing that closed space around it-
self in a pocket universe when it was turned
on — that was extendible. It worked some-
what like a n autograph arm. It closed ud to

about three feet in length, but he could ex-
pand it to quite five times that length. And
at all lengths it wrapped space around itself
and ceased to exist in our universe. As he
showed us.

“I am almost ashamed of this,” he told me
apologetically. “It is a device which a burglar
would be delighted to own.”

He turned on the switch and the thing van-
ished. In its stead there was that odd ap-
pearance of wrongness which I’ve explained,
but can’t possibly make you really imagine.
And he worked the control on the handle, and
it stretched out and thinned. It reached all
the way across the laboratory.

Then he put his hand into one end of it
and — of course — it came out on the other
side of the room and picked something up.
He showed it where he stood and put it in
his pocket. Then he grinned at his com-
panions — they had a hard time looking poker-
faced — and he pointed it at the floor. It went
through the floor as the first one had gone
through the newspaper without tearing it,
and he brought up something from the labo-
ratory downstairs, and then put it back.
Finally he pointed the slender rod of nothing
at an electric-light bulb, and he put a quarter
in it. This done, he turned off the switch.

When you think of it, putting that quarter
inside an unbroken electric-light bulb was,
all by itself, enough to make you hold your
head in your hands and groan. But Santos’
friends chuckled. They slapped each other
on the back. They roared with laughter.
Santos looked at them with a queer tight
grin on his face and his eyes shining. ,

Abruptly they filed out and Santos turned
to me.

“I know that you think it was childish, but
they are my old comrades,” he said apolo-
getically. “They have as much to forget about
this Guttierez as I have. To make them
amused, even for a little while, is worth
much.”

I didn’t say anything. I pointed to the
parcel I had brought — to the small-sized
storage B-batteries out of the kind of port-
able radio that isn’t made any more.

“I got the batteries you wanted,” I told
him. Then I said urgently: “Listen, Santos!

I can get hold of some people to see a demon-
stration of that thing when you’re willing to
show it, but first you’ve got to get at least
a patent application in. Do that, and I’ll
guarantee that there’ll be all the money you
need to start using it.”

FOCKET UNIVERSES 81

S ANTOS looked at me, and there was re-
serve in his manner.

"Bueno! But tell me what use you will put
it to.”

"For one thing, there’ll be no slums,” I
said earnestly. “People live in crowded places
so they can get to and from their work. With
this discovery of yours, distance simply hasn’t
any more meaning.. There won’t be any more
subways. There won’t be any more of the
nastiness that just having to live near this
place or that now makes inevitable.

“For another, there’ll be no more mines.
You can push one of these things down to
a vein of ore just as easily as you pushed it
down into Dobson’s laboratory below you,
and the ore will be just the same as at the
surface. Mining can be done cleanly, in the
sunlight.

“There won’t be any more hatreds between
nations when it is possible for anybody in the
world to step through a doorway and for an
afternoon see that the people in other coun-
tries are the same sort of people he is. And
I think that there won’t be many degraded,
graft-ridden governments when people can
see that they aren’t necessary. That’s part of
it, but there’s a lot more. There’s — ”

Santos’ face broke out into a genuine smile,
and his eyes were warm and friendly.

‘‘Bueno, that is enough!” he said. He shook
hands with me, impulsively. “You are muy
amigo mio. You shall see to all of that! But
there is a little thing first, just one little thing,
and then I will place myself in your hands.
You brought the little batteries. Excellent!
I would not have known where to seek them.”
He seemed astonished and pleased that I
had found exactly the sort of batteries he
needed. They’re hard to find. They’re away
out of date.

But if you want to know, of all the mistakes
I made in the whole affair, finding those
storage B -batteries is the one I’m sorriest for.
If I hadn’t done that, all might yet be well.

Santos vanished for eight days. He didn’t
go to the Institute or his laboratory. I didn’t
know where he lived, but I managed to find
out and went there. His landlady told me
that he had packed his bags and had de-
parted on a short trip. He had told her he’d
be gone a week.

He’d ridden off in a cab all by himself, and
she was holding his mail against when he
came back. I scribbled a note, saying:

I’m sweating blood, wondering if you’re going
to be run over by a truck. Call me when you get

back. You’re pretty important for the sort of
world I want to see.”

I signed it and left the note with her.

But it was eight days before he telephoned
me. And in those eight days I had one long-
continued case of jitters.

You remember the newspapers? You know
what a holiday they had with the Presidente
of Hondagua? And you probably remember
the ending, — according to the newspapers.

They had it very nearly right until the very
end, but you’ll be able to fill in what they
missed from what I’ve already told you.

The tumult and the shouting about Gut-
tierez grew louder and more specific. Planes
had put correspondents down in Hondagua
in a hurry, and for the first time in eighteen
years people dared to tell the truth. It had
been the tightest totalitarian government in
the world outside of Hitler’s, minus the party
line.

There wasn’t any party line. There weren’t
any principles the gang that ran the country
even pretended to believe in. They’d had
that country under their thumb, and they’d
pinched it. They’d milked it. They’d almost
literally bled it white.

The stuff that came out of the capital city
would make your hair curl. And it became
so clearly evident that Guttierez had made a
deal to save his own skin and loot, and it
looked so much like his carefully-guarded
baggage contained not only his own loot but
Nazi money too, that the newspapers began
to howl to high heaven that his diplomatic
immunity ought to be scrapped and his
baggage looked into.

Then a prominent firm of Latin- American
bankers announced that a very large sum,
running into many millions of dollars, had
been placed in their hands as a trust, to be
used for the benefit of the people and the na-
tion of Hondagua.

There was a moment’s pause, and then a
renewed howl. So Guttierez was trying to
turn back part of his loot to beg off, eh?

The New York newspapers — always de-
lighted with a scandal which did not hit the
home town — sounded off. Then the Latin-
American bankers issued a dignified state-
ment that the money was not put into their
hands by Guttierez, but by a committee of
former Hondaguans who had been Guttierez’s
bitterest enemies and were political exiles
from that country.

Then the works really blew up. The Presi-
dent of Hondagua apparently went out of his

32 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

head, in his suite in the Walderbilt. The
management heard shooting, and the mem-
bers of his train popped out of every door and
ran like rabbits. They were scared!

Guttierez bellowed hoarsely that he had
been robbed. He marched out into the corri-
dors of the hotel with a revolver in each hand,
frothing at the mouth and hunting for those
who had robbed him.

CHAPTER V
Santos Evens the Score

A MERICAN detectives finally got to Gut-
tierez, who panting and purple with
rage, swore that his luggage had been
looted in his own suite and by his own fol-
lowers. He was a hard-boiled egg, and no
mistake. He actually and literally foamed
at the mouth.

His baggage had arrived and it was intact.
He had made sure of that himself. Somebody
had stood guard over it day and night — two
men at a time, because he didn’t trust any
one person too much. Those who came off
guard were searched in his presence.

But he had been robbed of every peso he
had brought with him, and he bellowed that
he had brought — well — so many millions that
nobody believed it until it was pointed out
that the sum just passed on to be spent for
Hondaguan progress happened to be exactly
that same amount. But the firm of Latin-
American bankers simply said sedately that
it was an interesting coincidence, but no com-
ment could be made.

Guttierez wasn’t through, though. He was
ruined, discredited, penniless, and disgraced.
But he wanted to get even. He demanded
that the police and the FBI find out who had
robbed him and turn them over to him for
punishment.

The FBI politely consented to examine his
luggage for clues, and there was another pay-
off.

Guttierez had looked into every emptied
trunk and strong-box. Of course! But when
the FBI examined them they found confiden-
tial papers that Guttierez would definitely
not have wanted them to see. What they
didn’t prove was not worth proving.

For one thing, they put the works beauti-
fully on certain persons — not originally from

Hondagua — who had tried valiantly to de-
fend Guttierez from what they called a
“smear attack” in the newspapers. The FBI
was very, very much interested. But it was
polite to Guttierez.

It left him in his suite with a guard of
American police to assure that he would not
be molested. The guard also made sure that
he would not go out by himself or, in fact,
that he would not go out at all.

With that guard at the door, the next day
Guttierez was found dead. Very dead. Con-
clusively dead. Nobody had heard any loud
noise, but Guttierez was a horrifying corpse
because his expression screwed into an ap-
palling grimace of superstitious terror. He
hadn’t died of fright, though. He’d been
killed, by somebody who had made quite
sure.

All this took a week to happen. On the
eighth day Santos phoned me. I took a cab
and went streaking to his laboratory. His
expression had 1 ' changed. It was somehow
relaxed and infinitely calm now. It was so
calm I stared in surprise. He grinned at me.

“Hola, muy amigo mio!” he said cheerfully.
“Que hay?”

I swallowed. All of a sudden I knew the
truth. I sat down, feeling sickish.

“You’ve been talking so much Spanish
lately that you forget I don’t understand it,”
I faltered. “Do you feel better now?”

He nodded. He watched me alertly.

“No,” I said bitterly. “I’m not going to
tell the police. Why should I? He rated it,
Guttierez did. But you took the devil of a
chance! You could have been killed. Do you
realize that you’re the only man in the world
who knows how to make a diamagnet?”

“And that is important?” asked Santos
gravely.

“It’s mighty important!” I said bitterly.
“You’ve no right to risk your life.”

“There was no risk,” he assured me. “The
American wife of one of my friends rented
the suite two floors below his. The one above
or the one below might have seemed. sus-
picious, but two floors below — that was safe.”

“You’ve had your fling,” I said angrily.
“You used that extensible contrivance, and
made a pocket universe that reached from
the inside of his baggage to where you were.
You absorbed the space between. And you
looted his luggage from the inside, took the
proceeds and put them in a fund to be used
for the progress of Hondagua. Incidentally,
the people of Hondagua make a profit, be-

POCKET UNIVERSES

cause a lot of that money was originally
German.”

“It is not profit,” said Santos. “It means
such things as schools and doctors and hon-
esty, which they should have had a long
time ago.”

M Y EXPRESSION must have told him
how much I knew.

“And somewhere among his possessions,
there was a lot of incriminating stuff, which
you took with the loot,” I insisted. “After
he’d found everything was gone, you put it
back for the FBI to find.”

“But naturally,” said Santos in tranquil
tones. “It exposed other villians. I do not
like scoundrels.”

“So you fight them,” I said, “with the
technic of a super-burglar!”

I did not say anything about the killing of
Guttierez. That wasn’t my business. But I
could understand the expression of appalling,
superstitious horror his dead face had worn.
He’d seen materialize before him in thin air
the faces of men he’d wronged and whom
he’d believed dead. And they’d talked to him
before he died.

“You used the technic of a super-burglar,”
I repeated bitterly. “You risked the most
valuable life in the world!”

His grin was wryly affectionate. He was a
dried-up little runt of a Latin-American, but
I liked Santos, and he knew it.

“I am rebuked,” he said ruefully. “Your
viewpoint is not mine, amigo. You think of
people you do not know and who would prob-
ably bore you to death. I think of — the things
that seem important to me. But your view-
point is sound.”

He seemed to debate a little.

“I plan one additional experiment,” he said
presently, “I must make it before I prepare
to publish my discovery and apply for what
patents you shall advise me to ask. I am sure
it is perfectly safe. I have proved it. But I
will take most elaborate precautions.”
“What the devil are you going to do now?”
I asked hotly.

He told me and I raged. But he grinned
at me as I stormed up and down his labora-
tory, reminding him that he was a man and
not a mouse, and calling him a traitor to the
future. But he grinned on and repeated that
he would take precautions. The most elabo-
rate ones.

Next morning, early, I got a note from him:
Amigo mio:

83

To spare you worry, I am making my ex-
periment tonight. As you know, I plan to en-
close myself in one of the areas of space which
becomes a closed universe when its diamagnet is
turned on.

For the purpose I have made a diamagnet
large enough to contain me in its field, and I
shall energize it with the storage-batteries you
procured for me. I shall have the switch in-
side, and turn it on, and then immediately turn
it off again. Nothing can possibly happen to
harm me.

I enclosed a mouse so, and it was not harmed
or even disturbed by the experience, though I
left it in the closed universe as long as I thought
the air would suffice it.

But I am taking other precautions. I have
written out a complete account of the theory
of the diamagnet, and exact instructions for
manufacture. I would leave it in a desk drawer,
but you would reproach me.

So I have placed it in the small universe-
generator I made for the mouse experiment.
I place a single tiny storage-battery with it, and
a clock will turn off the current at precisely
noon tomorrow. I have made a practical device
which even you did not think of! A truly bur-
glar-proof safe!

If I am not in my laboratory when you arrive,
you will be able to find how to duplicate all my
results at noon. But I shall be there, and we
will have lunch together.

As the greatest of possible precautions, and
so you inay not reproach me for carelessness,
the two remaining smaller diamagnets — includ-
ing the one for burglary — will go into the en-
closed space with me for one-half of a second.

And because you might be absurd about it, I
especially enjoin you to proceed to bring about
the happier world you envision if the unthink-
able should occur and disaster befall me. But
actually, I shall be waiting for you for lunch.

Tuyo atto. y ajfm. amigo!

I went to the laboratory. I don’t know ex-
actly why, but I was in a cold sweat all the
way. And Santos wasn’t there.

There was a big space, over by the work-
table, that somehow looked wrong any way
you looked at it. It was big enough for Santos
to be in. The stand which held the contriv-
ance upright when it was turned off was
visible underneath, like the handle of his
portable gadgets, and like the wires which
had led into the first one of all.

But Santos hadn’t turned it off. If he’d used
a plug to a power outlet, I could have cut it
off myself. But he’d used the storage bat-
teries. There wasn’t any way to get into it.
There isn’t any way to get in. He’s in a closed
universe. A pocket-sized closed universe, to
be sure, but nevertheless a tight one.

F OR the rest of it, there was the little
thing he’d made for his mouse experi-
ment. That was on its stand, too, and that

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

84

hasn’t turned off either.

I stayed in the laboratory all that day and
night and the next day, waiting for one or
the other to turn off. Neither one has. That’s
been three months ago, — and no tiny storage-
battery, constantly working, would hold a
charge for three months! It would have ex-
hausted itself, normally.

Of course the two things themselves are
perfectly demonstrable pocket universes. You
can do with them every experiment we first
tried on the very first diamagnet of all.

Sooner or later, if neither one turns off, I’ll
explain what I can and prove what I say by
them, and they’ll be put in museums and
taken care of and studied and so on. But I
feel rather sick.

You see, the people of Hondagua have a
lot of money that’s going to be spent for them
by people who want it to do some good, and
it’s a small country, and there are enough
millions for it to make a big difference.

But there’s Santos! Hang it, I liked the
man! And until he comes out of that pocket

universe, nobody will get any benefit from
his discovery! But there’s no way in the
world to speed up the turning of that
switch. . . .

He’ll come out, all right. He only expected
to stay in there for half a second, and he’s
been in there three months, and of course he
took no provisions and also of course there’s
been no fresh supply of air. But he’ll come
out. That battery on the little diamagnet
couldn’t have an atom of power by this time,
but it’s still on and it’s been on for three
months.

So I don’t think the clock has stopped or
that Santos is dead.

They’re in little closed spaces, little pocket
universes, which are strictly their own. And
we don’t know any of the constants of such
small closed universes.

For instance, so far as Santos is concerned,
we don’t know how many months or years
or centuries in the time of this universe will
have to pass, before a half-second has gone
by in that.

FAR IN THE FUTURE, THE SECRET OF THE POCKET
UNIVERSES IS REDISCOVERED BY MAN WHEN
DOOM THREATENS THE GALAXY

in

THE END

Another Astonishing Complete Novelet

By MURRAY LEINSTER

Coming Next Issue — Plus Many Other Unusual Stories!

THE LITTLE THINGS

By HENRY SiiJTTNER

Dave Tenninq, a born rebel, felt that he did not really
belong in this Futureworld which was tired of rebellion /

I'll fight,” Dave promised. “I'll stop all this.

T HE first thing he did when he felt free
from pursuit was to head for a news-
stand. He wanted to know the date.
He didn’t know how long he’d been in the
Chateau D’lf, because after the first year or
so there wasn’t much point in keeping track.

There simply wasn’t any way of escaping.
Edmond Dantes had got out of the original
D’lf, but such a trick wouldn’t work twice.
When the — guests — died in this particular
guest house there was a quick cremation in
the basement somewhere.

That was one of the distressing sparse
scraps of information he had managed to pick
up during his period of imprisonment. Not
once, in that long time, had he left the win-
dowless single room with its nearly luxurious
furnishings and completely luxurious Sia-
mese cat, Shan, who had kept him from utter
loneliness.

It had been a wrench to leave Shan, but
her devotion was given to things, not people,
and it had been no imprisonment for her.
The miracle that had enabled him to escape
85

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

86

was not one that could be extended indefi-
nitely. He took the chance when it came, and
got out while the after-rumblings of the
explosion were still sounding from below.

He didn’t know what it was but the science
of the big boys who ran the place was slight-
ly super.

He got out in a sack that was piled with a
dozen others on an elevator platform, and
after that, for a while, he depended on his
senses of touch and hearing for orientation.
He didn’t learn much. But he had an idea
that the sacks were dealt with by automatic
machinery.

The helicopter had automatic controls,
anyway— as he discovered after getting out
of the sack. He had a bad moment or two
mastering the enormously simplified gadgets.
Copters had been mighty complicated in 1945,
and he was inclined to make too difficult a
job of it.

The panel exploded into lights and yelps
before he grounded. So that must have been
the tip-off. They’d be after him now, the big
boys who’d kept him in D’lf for years. Oh,
very comfortably. He was in perfect physical
condition. Special lamps and treatments took
care of him physically and mentally. A tele-
visor gave him education and entertainment.
There were books.

But he never saw or read anything released
later than June, 1945. Maybe that was why
worry hadn’t eaten into his brain and nerves.
He didn’t feel quite so much left out of things.
He knew, of course, that the world was mov-
ing on, but he didn’t see it move. That
helped.

The copter grounded in a ploughed field.
It was night, but there was a full moon. Sil-
houettes against a dim glow told him that
there was a city not too far away. The air-
ship shot up and went away. It had no lights,
and was swiftly lost as it kept going up,
apparently heading for the stratosphere.

He took several deep breaths. Then he felt
nonexistent eyes on him; the skin of his back
contracted — and he knew that he was fugi-
tive.

It was different, but it wasn’t so different.
The basics were still there. There were peo-
ple, and the styles in clothing hadn’t changed
too much. He wore a duplicate of the same
suit he’d had on in 1945, that June day when
they’d come for him, the big boys. The big
boys who’d sat outside and waited, their faces
hidden, while their strong-arm men — appro-
priated — Terming.

‘I am Dave Terming’ he thought, and there
was a little shock of novelty. He had got out
of the habit of thinking of himself in any per-
sonal sense. In fact, the calm, confident real-
ization of personal identity had gradually
vanished during the term of his imprison-
ment, Like a baby, he had become almost

unconscious of ego. There had been no need
for its assertion.

7 am Dave Terming ^ but there is another
Dave Tenning.’

That was where reality left off and the ter-
ror began. It had never seemed quite real
till now, the knowledge that an alter ego was
walking in the outside world. Because there
hadn’t been any outside world, really, after a
while — it moved away from him in time, and
the people in it, even those he had known
intimately, were less real than the sensuous
detachment of Siamese Shan.

WW IS clothes were all right. Nobody stared
at him. He hadn’t any money, of course,
and that was a handicap, but not an insur-
mountable one. The boys at the Star would
stake him. But he must be careful not to en-
counter the pseudo Dave Tenning, until he
was ready. Maybe he’d need a gun. These
doppelgangers could be killed. They always
died when their originals did.

That was why the originals were kept
alive, and in good physical and mental shape.
There was some vital bond, something psy-
chic, a dynamo of life-force in the Original
that kept the Carbon Copy going by induc-
tion. He’d theorized in that direction, any-
how, and it checked pretty well.

But he felt funny, because this wasn’t his
world any more. He kept thinking that the
men and women who passed him would stop
and glance and then there’d be an outcry —
just what he didn’t know, except that he
didn’t belong here. In 1945 he’d belonged, all
right.

He knew why they’d snatched him, too.
A gossip columnist has potentialities of pow-
er. They wanted men — doppelgangers — in
key places. They had a lot of them, undoubt-
edly. 1945 had been a crucial year. It was
one of the few times when Pandora’s box had
been opened, when too much was available
to a wide-eyed civilization.

Germany was on her knees, Japan going
down, and the post-war world had been a
bogey. Not because there was so much to do,
but because there were so very many ways
of doing it. It wasn’t Pandora’s box — it was
a grab-bag.

The social problems were far tougher than
technological ones, because the human basics
remained unaltered, and people don’t change
as fast as things. You could have planned
on a dehydrated chicken in every pot, but the
change-over, the conversion of the social set-
up was another matter.

It didn’t look as though much had changed
— not really.

He even recognized places. There were
some new buildings, though not many. The
automobiles had a different design, without
streamlining, were more pleasing to the eye.

THE LITTLE THINGS if

Buses without drivers moved close to the
curb and stopped at intervals. The lamp-
posts gave a different sort of light. Shop-
windows showed clothes, sporting goods,
liquors, toys, nothing radically different.

But it was the small changes that made the
city alien to Tenning. He didn’t belong. Also,
he knew that somewhere was another Dave
Tenning, who had supplanted him, and that
realization partially erased his consciousness
of ego.

He had a momentary, unlikely sense of
guilt — as though he had interfered with the
rightness of the plan by escaping from D’lf.
You’re a stranger, the people said as they
went by without looking at him. You’re a
stranger.

‘Stranger, hardly. I lived eight years in
this town. I came here from a New York rag,
and people read my column. So it wasn’t
Winchell or Pyle or Dan Walker. I never pre-
tended to be anything more than a second-
string columnist. I was read at breakfast,
over the coffee, and people got a bang out of
the muck I raked.

‘I’m Dave Tenning, and for years or cen-
turies I’ve been locked up in a comfortable
little prison with a Shangri-La library and
a cat named Shan who didn’t give a hoot
about anything except a cat named Shan.
The ghost walks. Just where he’s bound I
don’t know, but he’s looking for some threads
to pick up. The date, for example.’

The newsstand had regular papers and it
also had small, thick disks of plastic or glazed
cardboard. Tenning stopped to stare. The
date—

Fish decern 7. And so what?

“Paper, mister?” the man in the booth said.
“Sheet or roto?”

“Look,” Tenning said. “What’s the date?”

“Decem.”

He wanted to ask another question, but he
didn’t. He turned and went on, wondering
about Seven. Year Seven? Not Anno Domi-
ni. So?

The little things, like this, would be the
hardest to pick up. People don’t change, they
just grow older. But fads and gadgets and
trivia alter fast, even to the point of becoming
unrecognizable. And he still didn’t know
what year it was.

The heck with it. This was Gardner Street,
and he knew where the Star building was.
He hopped one of the robot buses when it
stopped and wanted a cigarette. He was in-
active for the first time since his escape, but
his nerves weren’t.

Nobody in the bus was smoking. He hadn’t
seen anybody smoking.

The Star building was still there, big, old
and, surprisingly, dark. The electric banner
on the roof was gone. Tenning walked up the
steps and rattled the ancient doors. They

were locked. He stood, hesitating.

This time he was really scared. A chased
fox goes to earth, but if he finds his burrow
blocked up, that’s bad. Tenning automatic-
ally reached into his pockets, one after an-
other. They were all empty.

A HEAVY-SET man strolling along the
street paused to look up at him. Dia-
mond-points of light showed under over-
hanging brows.

“That place closes at tilth,” the man said.

Tenning glanced back at the locked doors.

“When?”

“Tilth.”

“It— does?”

“Government offices,” the man said, shrug-
ging. “They run by schedule. No use trying
to get in. Not till fen in the morning, any-
way.”

Tenning came down the steps.

“I thought this was the Star building.”

“No,” the assured, quiet voice said. “Not
any more. We thought you’d come here,
though.”

Tenning’s poised, singing nerves went
wham. His fist made a similar sound as it hit
the man’s jaw, and Tenning followed up that
one good blow with several others. He struck
with panic and hysteria. The sound ol
alarmed voices made him realize that his
opponent was down, and that figures were
closing in.

He knew the streets and alleys and got
away easily. That relieved him a bit. His
pursuers were simply casuals. If they’d been
men from D’lf, he wouldn’t have escaped
without a lot more trouble.

So they knew, and they were on his track.
Fine. He wanted a gun. He wanted a big
bludgeon with spikes in it. He wanted poison
gas and block-busters and flame-throwers.
Most of all he wanted a hideout.

It was the familiarity of the city that was
dangerous. The little things were different,
and they were the ones that could betray
him. He might find himself taking too much
for granted, because this alley he was in
looked just like the Poplar Way he used to
know, and as he walked along, a paving-
stone might suddenly fly away with him and
take him back to D’lf and the cat.

He went down to Skid Row, and that hadn’t
changed. The people had. He didn’t know
any of them. Maybe, in a different social set-
up, different people would be hanging on the
ropes. But was this another set-up?

There was a cheesy sort of beer-garden in
back, and he went there and wondered about
things. Customers were paying for their
drinks with tokens of some sort. Under a
bedraggled potted tree a girl was sitting
alone at a table, nursing a highball.

They looked at each other. The waiter ap-

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

88

peared, and Tenning hastily got up and went
to the telephone booth. But it held gadgets
and no directory, so he came out again and
stood helplessly hesitating.

He went over to the girl. She looked lost,
too.

“Look,” Tenning said, “can I sit down?”
“Never . . . works out,” she said. “I can’t
keep up with it. You’re not the man, you
know.”

She was drunk, plenty drunk. But she
held it well and managed to look pretty.

“Sit down,” she said after a while. “Are
you lost too?”

“Yeah. Lost and broke. I want a nickel to
make a phone call.”

Her blue eyes went wide. She laughed, not
pleasantly. And she called the waiter.

“Two highballs.”

Tenning waited. The drink tasted good,
but it lacked schmaltz. Non-intoxicating al-
cohol, he theorized.

“What about it?” he asked. “Thanks for
the drink. But what I really want — ”

“You can’t make a phone call that far
back,” she said, and Tenning’s spine jammed
itself together and felt cold. His fingers tight-
ened on the glass. He said gently,

“What do you mean?”

“I miss it too. I grew up in the wrong
time. Some people just can’t adjust. We’re
a couple of them. I’m Mary. You?”

“Dave,” he said, waiting for a reaction.
But there was none.

She didn’t know, then. How could she?
The whole world wasn’t spying on him. The
whole world wasn’t in league with D’lf. That
cat strolling across the bricks wasn’t really in
telepathic touch with Shan, reporting the
whereabouts of the escaped prisoner.

“Why can’t you make a phone call?” he
asked.

“It wouldn’t be worth it. Building phones
just for people like us. We’ll die, Dave. We
can’t propagate. They don’t try to harm us,
because we’re not in the way. If you don’t
fit in — okay. Get drunk and think about
Andy. You don’t know Andy.”

“Who—”

She laughed.

“He died, and I didn’t. Or vice versa. I’ve
never seen you around here before.”

“I’ve been — out of town. For a long time.”
“I never bothered to go.”

“The telephone — ”

“You know how they work nowadays,” she
said, “and what they call ’em.”

Tenning was looking at a clock, high on
the wall. He couldn’t make much of the
numerals. They weren’t numerals. They
were arbitrary signs.

“Sela plus,” Mary said, “so we’ve plenty of
time. Andy won’t come. I told you he was
dead.”

Hr HE little things are important. They
-*■ made up their own dates, their own hour-
names. Why? So people would be just a bit
unsure, perhaps. Or, maybe, because time-
names were a common denominator, and by
changing those, the people were gradually
turned into a different path.

There would be no sudden, tremendous
metamorphosis. Tall cities would not spring
skyward overnight. Ships would not fly to
the planets. Because people change more
slowly than things. Chaos and revolution fol-
low renaissance. If the people have power.

In 1945 there had been power to waste.
There had been a hundred plans for rebuild-
ing a new world. And each had its own back-
ers, many of them fanatical.

Harding was elected because he promised
normalcy. After war, men were tired. They
wanted to crawl back into a 1912 womb. They
didn’t want experiments that might upset
their lives further.

Even before Japan went down, the road to
the future was clear — a hundred plans, and a
hundred fanatics. And weapons of power.
If one plan had been chosen, there would
have been opposition, and deadly danger to
civilization. Because, by 1945, technology
had developed weapons that were too peril-
ous to be used — except by fanatics.

On one point everyone agreed — the Hard-
ing platform. Pre-war security. The good
old way of life. It was easy to tuj-n propa-
ganda in that direction. Men wanted to rest.

So they rested, and Utopia did not come.
But there were signs.

Streamlining was not functional for sur-
face vehicles. It wasn’t used.

Alcoholic drinks were, after a while, in-
toxicating, but without toxic effects.

Fish decern 7.

Sela plus.

But in the open — nothing. People were
contented and secure. They had their old,
safe way of life. Perhaps subconsciously they
were being conditioned otherwise. They took
it for granted now that this was Fish decern 7.

A few misfits, who couldn’t get used to the
psych-phones —

He’d been a reporter, so he picked the
scoop out of Mary after a while. It took quite
a few drinks. And he had to keep turning
the subject away from Andy, who was dead,
but who used to do a lot of things in the old
days, when telephones were still used.

“People are different,” Mary said. “It’s like
... I don’t know. They’ve got something on
their minds. But I don’t know what it is. I
remember in school everybody was tremen-
dously excited one time about beating Tech
High in the big game.

“I didn’t care. But everybody else did.
There was a sort of undercurrent. They were
all working for that, deep inside of them, and

THE LITTLE THINGS 89

I couldn’t see it. Suppose we didn’t win?
What about it?”

“Antisocial,” Tenning said.

“There’s something in the air now. Every-
body’s working to beat Tech High. Except
me, and — ” She made a gesture. “People like
us aren’t even in the way.”

“I used to work on the Star,” he said. “It
moved, didn’t it?”

“All the papers moved, of course. They’re
published from somewhere. Only nobody
knows where.”

“Do you — read the Star?”

“I don’t want to read anything.”

“I was thinking about a columnist . . .
Tenning.”

She shrugged.

“I know about him. He isn’t with the Star
now. He spotcasts.”

“That’s ... a radio—”

“Not any more. Tenning’s a hot shot now,
Dave. Everybody listens to him.”

“What does he talk about?”

“Gossip. And politics. People listen — ”

'^T'EAH, people listen to that dirty ringer,
■*- and he moulds public opinion. He moulds
it the way the big boys want. That’s why
they grabbed me in nineteen forty-five. I
wasn’t at the top then, but I had the public
ear. I was getting good audience reactions.
Spotting key men to work out their plan for
them —

Ringers, doppelgangers, in the right places.
Painless psychology, sugar-coated propagan-
da. And a world moving, leaving Dave Ten-
ning behind, a simply immense sphere be-
ginning to turn from its course, gathering
momentum as a thousand doppelgangers
shoved it along.

Okay. Maybe the plan itself was good.
But Dave Tenning had been the prisoner of
Chillon for a long time.

“I’ve got friends — or I used to have ’em,”
he said. “Mary, how can I get in touch with
a guy named Pelham?”

“I don’t know.”

“Royce Pelham. He used to publish the
Star”

“Have another drink.”

“This is important.”

She stood up.

“Okay, Dave. I’ll fix it.”

And she went to the psych-phone booth.
Tenning sat and waited.

It was a warm night. His glass, cooled by
induction, felt pleasant in his palm. A Skid
Row beer-garden, smelly, not too clean, with
moribund potted trees looking dissipated in
the moonlight.

Welcome home, Dave Tenning. Welcome
back to life. No brass band, but so what?
The brass band is out serenading Dave Ten-
nine II. The oseudo-man who made good.

Offbeat music swung crazy, boogie rhythms
somewhere, hitting the blue chord hard.
Mary reappeared, looking pale.

“I kept thinking of Andy,” she said, “be-
fore he died. He got to liking those psych-
phones. I never can get to.”

After 1945, did people really want the old-
style life? Or was the social growth, the
evolutionary trend, still stirring? The super-
ficialities came back. But people seemed to
like new things — if they weren’t too new, if
they didn’t seem to point the way to Change.
Before a baby can run, it must be taught to
walk, its fears overcome.

“Pelham?” Tenning said.

“Wela tee Carib Street.”

“How — how do I get there?”

She told him. He still looked baffled. Mary
finished her drink.

“Oh, I’ll show you. It’s something to do.
But we’ll come back here later.”

They caught a bus — no fares were collect-
ed — and finally got to a comfortable, old-
fashioned house in the suburbs. Mary said
she’d wait in the corner drug-store and drink
a chang. Tenning was wondering about the
color of a chang as he rang the bell.

Old Pelham himself opened the d»or. He
was smaller, a trifle shrunken, and complete-
ly bald now. His heavy face, seamed in folds,
was inquiring.

“So?”

“Royce. You know me, don’t you?”

“No,” Royce Pelham said. “Should I?"

“I don’t know how long it’s been, but . . .
Tenning. Dave Tenning. The Star. Nineteen
forty-five.”

“A friend of Tenning?” Pelham asked.
“I’ve got to talk to you. If I can explain — ”
“All right. Come in. I’m alone tonight, the
kids are out. Now.”

So they sat in a comfortable room with fur-
niture that was mostly old, but had a few
new and disquieting things, like the shining,
moving, singing crystal on its pedestal in a
corner. Pelham was courteous. He sat and
listened. Tenning told it all, what he’d ex-
perienced, what he’d doped out, the whole
works.

“But you’re not Tenning,” Pelham said.

“I told you he’s a double.”

“You don’t look like Tenning.”

“I’m older.”

“You never were Tenning,” Pelham said,
and gestured. Part of the wall turned into a
mirror. Tenning turned and looked at a man
who wasn’t Tenning, and who had never been
Tenning.

KEY’D done that in D’lf. There’d been
no mirrors there. Only Shan could have
told the truth, and Shan couldn’t be both-
ered. Five years, ten, twenty couldn’t have
made this difference. The bone structure was

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

60

different. He was older, but he wasn’t an
older Dave Tenning. Somebody else had
grown older in D’lf.

“Fingerprints,” Tenning said quite a while
later. He said it twice more before his voice
was right. “Prints, Royee. They couldn’t
have changed those.’’

But then he looked at his hands. He knew
what his finger-tips should look like. The
whorls and spirals had been somewhat un-
usual.

“I think—” Pelham began.

“Never mind. They didn’t forget anything.
But my mind’s still mine. I can remember
the days on the old Star.”

He paused. The doppelganger would re-
member, too. The doppelganger was a perfect
double of the 1945 Dave Tenning, complete
with memories and everything else. Enoch
Arden. A stranger , and afraid, In a world I
never made.

“There must be some way of proving — ”

“I’m an open-minded man,” Pelham said,
“but Lord, I’ve known Tenning for years. I
had lunch with him last Questen in Washing-
ton. You simply can’t expect to get away
with — whatever it is you’re trying to get
away with.”

“Maybe not,” Tenning said. “So they’ll
catch up with me eventually, and take me
back to my cozy little apartment in wher-
ever-it-is.”

Pelham spread his hands.

“All right,” Tenning said. “Thanks for
something, anyway. I’ll let myself out.”

He did.

Mary wa£ drinking her orange-colored
chang at the counter when Tenning entered
the drug-store. He perched on the stool be-
side her.

“Okay?” she asked.

“Just fine,” he said bitterly.

“Got any plans?”

“Not yet. But I will have.”

“Come along with me,” she ordered. “It’s
my turn now. There’s something I want to
see.”

He went with her, downtown, to a central
plaza he remembered. They stood near the
sidewalk, opposite the marquee of a hotel,
and in the warm, prescient night the pulse of
new life beat dimly in off-beat rhythm.

People were different, Tenning saw. It was
nothing tangible. They had just grown older,
but not as he had grown. Not as even Mary
had grown. They were conditioned to . . .
offbeat.

But every face held a latent consciousness
of security. There would be no revolutions.
The roots were firm in old things. And the
new things were coming, gradually, inevi-
tably.

“Blast!” Tenning said.

“What?”

It was all wrong. He could have adjusted
easily to a completely new world. A civiliza-
tion a thousand years hence would have been
all new. That would have been acceptable.
But by Fish decern 7 only the little things
had changed. The little things, and the minds
of men.

A man came out of the hotel and got into
a car that pulled up. He was quite an ordi-
nary man, but Mary’s fingers clenched on
Tenning’s arm as the vehicle swung out and
disappeared along the street.

“Eh?”

“That was Andy,” she said.

He didn’t get it for a moment.

Then he thought, ‘So it wasn’t Andy who
died. It was Mary. Or, rather, she stopped
living. She stuck to the telephones when
Andy started to get used to the psych-
phones.’

She was a casualty, too.

“Let’s go' back to the beer-garden,” Ten-
ning said.

“Gladly. Come on.”

It didn’t take long. But there was some-
body waiting at their table, the heavy-
browed man Tenning had encountered on the
steps of the Star building. He had a purple
welt on his jaw.

Tenning’s insides coalesced coldly. He
poised, hesitating, and then glanced around
quickly.

“I’m all alone,” the man said. “Look, don’t
start anything. I forgot to give you this.” He
slapped a leatheroid folder on the table.

“You’re not taking me back,” Tenning said.
Unconsciously he had gone into a crouch,
Mary behind him, instinct flooding his blood-
stream with violence.

“No. You left a week or so too soon, but it
doesn’t matter. Good luck.” The man smiled,
got up, and went out, leaving Tenning help-
lessly shaken.

Mary opened the folder.

“A friend of yours?”

“N-no.”

“He must be. To leave you this?”

“What is it?” Tenning still looked after
the heavy-browed man.

“Token-currency,” she said. “And plenty
of it. You can buy me a drink now.”

He snatched the folder.

“Money? That’s what — heck! I can fight
them now! I can splash the truth all over
the country! See if I don’t — ”

CHAN purred on the lap of the red-haired
^ man.

“Tenning is the only one who’s escaped so
far, Jerry,” the man said, gently tickling the
cat’s jaw. “And that wouldn’t have happened
if we hadn’t been reconverting. Doesn’t mat-
ter, anyhow, of course. He was due for a dis-
charge in a week or so. You might look over

THE LITTLE THINGS

91

his records some day when you have time.
Tenning’s an interesting nonentity of the
more troublesome sort.”

“There’s a lot I’m still vague about,” the
other man said. “My background’s geopo-
litical. I’m not a physicist. The doppelgang-
ers — ”

“That’s a matter for the technicians. You’re
specially qualified for administrative work,
with psychological angles. Right now you’re
getting a bird’s-eye view of the whole works
— a sort of apprenticeship.

“The doppelgangers, though — well, the
double concept’s interesting. Not terribly im-
portant, but interesting. When the Double
first goes out, the psychic cord between the
two is very strong. That’s why we have to
keep the Original in custody — among other
reasons.

“After a certain period the Double seems
to acquire enough personality of his own to
go on alone, and the Original’s released. He’s
harmless by then, anyhow.”

“He wouldn’t have been, at first?”

“Oh, no. Not Tenning’s type. He’s one of
the dangerous group. Not creative, but influ-
ential. You see, the creators and the techni-
cians were with us from the start. They saw
this was the only possible safe solution.

“But the Tennings, the fellows with a little
talent and a lot of aggressiveness — imagine
what damage he might have done in nineteen
forty-five, yawping his emotional reactions
over the air. Undisciplined, immature emo-
tions, veering in all directions.

“It’s normal, of course — everybody was
veering in nineteen forty-five. That was
what we had to put a stop to, before chaos
set in. Terming was one of the unfortunate
in-betweens, guys with too much influence to
run around free, and too little intelligence
to come in constructively with us.

“We couldn’t reason with his kind. We
couldn’t even tell him the truth. Terming
Duplicate has done a lot of good — under con-
trol. All our key men have. We need guys
like Tenning to steer people in the right di-
rection.”

“Under control,” Jerry said.

TP HE red-haired man laughed. “We’re not
the bosses. Don’t start out with that idea
even in the back of your mind, Jerry. People
with dictator impulses are reconditioned —
fast. Here’s the answer — we could never be
bosses in this set-up, even if we wanted to be.
The change is taking place too slowly.

“That was our whole concept, of course,
and the very slowness of the thing is the
check and balance system that works on us.
The minute any of us got dictatorship im-
pulses, we’d have to change the social set-up.

“And the people won’t accept quick change.
They've had enough of that. There’d be

chaos, and one lone dictator wouldn’t stand a
chance. He’d have too many opponents. All
we’re working for — and don’t you forget it,
Jerry — is to focus the veering. That’s job
enough for any organization right now.”

“What about Tenning? Now that he’s free,
he’s harmless?”

“Perfectly harmless. Mellhorn gave him
token-money enough to cover the transition
period, and he’ll adjust like everyone else —
if he can.”

“Pretty hard on him, isn’t it, tossed out into
a strange world?”

“It’s not that strange. He’ll learn. That is,
he’ll learn now if he ever would have. I’m
not so sure. Some just don’t adjust. It takes
a certain flexibility and self-confidence to
be able to’ make changes as your environ-
ment changes.

“People like Tenning — I don’t know. It’s
a funny thing, Jerry, there’s a whole new
class sinking to the bottom of the social set-
up now. People who can’t or won’t adapt to
the new things. It happens after every major
social upheaval, of course, but this time we’re
getting a new group of misfits.

“In the long run, a much higher percent-
age benefits, of course. It’s too bad about the
maladjusted group, but there isn’t much we
can do. I don’t know about Tenning. We’ll
keep an eye on him, help if we can.

“But these men with half a talent and a
taste for public adulation have got a bad
weak spot to begin with. I hope he makes
out all right. I hope he does.”
■>£•*#**

“I don’t get it, Dave,” Mary said. “Whom
do you want to fight?”

He gripped the leatHeroid folder savagely.

“The big boys, the ones who built the
psych-phones and started this screwy system
of Fish decern seventh. All this — this stuff.
You ought to know.”

“But what do you want?” she asked. “What
do you think you’re fighting for?”

He looked at her. And, in the warm dim-
ness of the air, the wave of the future stirred
as an alien quickening that he sensed very
dimly, and hated.

“I’ll fight,” he promised. “I’ll — stop all
this.”

He swung around and went out The wait-
er paused at Mary’s table.

“Highball,” she said.

He sent a questioning glance after Tenning.

“One?”

“Just one.”

“He isn’t coming back?”

She didn’t answer for a moment as she lis-
tened to the off-beat rhythm of the music
that had gone on beyond her.

“Not tonight,” she said. “But he’ll be back.
There’s nothing out there for him. Not any
more. Sure, he’ll be back — some day.”

Tubby— Master of the Atom

By RAY CUMMINGS

Off goes Tubby in the Time-Space-Mattei-Mobile on a jaunt
to a distant era where an atomic beauty gives him the eye!

T UBBY was excited at the very thought
of this atomic lecture he was about to
hear.

“Maybe he’ll explode an atom for us,” he
whispered. “Think so? Just one, maybe?”
“You’re raving,” Jake said. “If even one
atom explodes, it blows you all to pieces.”
“That’s right,” Pete declared.

The little lecture hall was crowded. Tubby
and his two friends had come early, to be sure

of good seats. Now they were seated com-
fortably in the first row. The place had filled
quickly. When there were no more regular
seats, the ushers had opened little camp-
chairs. There were a few feet of empty space
between the first row and the raised lecture
platform.

That was too bad for Tubby because, pres-
ently, an usher came escorting what seemed
to be favored personages — two baldheaded
92

TUBBY— MASTER OF THE ATOM

little men, and a young woman.

The usher obsequiously placed the chairs
on a diagonal partly in front of Tubby and his
friends. The young woman had a weird-
looking black hat with a feather and flower
on it. She was very animated, whispering to
her aged companions, so that in about a min-
ute Tubby was dizzy trying to duck the bob-
bing' feather and flower.

“Well!” he exploded audibly. “Some peo-
ple just ain’t got no consideration at all!”

The young woman turned. Tubby hadn’t
noticed her much before. He had been too
busy gazing at the hat. He saw now that she
was a slim and slinky girl in black, with a
face that nobody could complain about. Her
parted red lips were smiling, and the ravish-
ing look of big, luminous dark eyes that she
bestowed on Tubby made his head swim.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the young woman said.
“My hat, of course!” She removed it and
turned back to waste her charm on the two
weazened little men.

“ ’Sail right,” Tubby murmured. “Thanks,
you needn’t have bothered.”

“Sh-h-h!” Jake hissed. “Shut up! He’s
beginnin’.”

A pale young man in black evening clothes
complete with tails, boiled shirt and high col-
lar, had appeared on the platform. His voice
was soft and very pleasant. Soothing. He was
sort of hypnotic, Tubby thought. But if you
listened close to what he was saying, it was
the real McCoy. Gave you plenty to think
about.

“Now the uranium atom is the most com-
plex of all atoms,” the lecturer was saying.
“It has in it ninety-two electrons. Each of
them has a charge of negative electricity, and
they spin in orbits around a tiny, but heavy
nucleus. And this nucleus is made up of nine-
ty-two positively charged protons plus one
hundred forty-six neutrons, which are elec-
trically neutral. This atom we call U-Two-
thirty-eight. That L ninety-two plus one-
forty-six which equals two-thirty-eight. Now
in order to split that atom and thus release
an enormous amount of energy, we add to the
nucleus a slow-moving neutron produced
with the aid of radium or a cyclotron. . .”

D EEP stuff this. Tubby wedged his fat
little body down more comfortably in
his chair. The lecturer droned on:

“Now the mechanism of an atomic bomb,
for instance, by which a slow-moving neu-
tron strikes the atom, consists of — ”

93

A twitch at his coat sleeve made Tubby
turn. A man was standing beside him in the
aisle — a thin, bent little man with a big wob-
bling head and a mass of iron-gray hair. He
had a felt hat in his hand. His fingers were
crushing it in suppressed excitement.

“You’re Tubby?” the little man whispered.
“I’ve been looking all over for you. Come
on. Quick, now!”

Tubby was startled. “Come on where?
Why? Is somethin’ wrong?”

“Things are very right,” the little man
murmured. “Now that I’ve found you — very
right indeed. But hurry!”

Before he really realized it, Tubby was in
the aisle and the stranger was guiding him to
a side exit. In the dim hall no one saw them
leave.

“Hey, wait a minute, where we goin’?”
Tubby asked.

It was drizzling out; much too disagree-
able to roam around. The little man turned
up the frayed collar of his dark coat and
pulled his hat-brim down over his eyes.

“We’re going to my chemical laboratory,”
he answered briskly. “My! I’m glad I found
you, Tubby.”

“Me, too,” Tubby said. A gentleman is al-
ways polite. “Glad to meet you, Mr.— er — ”

“I’m Professor Ikon,” the little man said.
He turned his thin, seamed face toward Tub-
by, and beamed. His features wrinkled up
into a knot and his scraggly teeth showed.

“Oh, well, glad to meet you,” Tubby ac-
knowledged.

Professor Ikon looked disappointed.
“You’ve never heard of me! Well, I suppose
that’s the best I could expect; That’s just the
trouble. Almost no one has ever heard of me.
But that’s what I’m going to fix. Right now!
And you’re going to help me! You and I,
Tubby. We’re going to be the best known
people in the world. And the most power-
ful!”

It sounded fine, but Tubby had no chance
to go into it further just then because the
Professor suddenly turned into a dark entry-
way and began fumbling with a key. The
door opened.

“Come in, Tubby. Take your coat off and
roll up your sleeves. I’ll have everything
ready in a minute.”

This Professor Ikon was a man of action.
Tubby flung off his coat and rolled up his
sleeves ready for business. The Professor
switched on a light and began bustling about.
It was a small, dingy room crowded with

94 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

queer-looking apparatus. Wall shelves held
big bottles of colored liquid and what looked
like radio tubes and grids and flashlight bat-
teries, Everything was electrical, with wires
lying around like dead snakes.

The Professor knelt down in the middle of
the floor where what looked like a small
canoe of white aluminum was standing. The
canoe glowed with a luminous electrical
light. Then the Professor turned off a switch
and the glow died out.

“Fine!” he said. “Everything is ready.” He
gestured toward the canoe as he stood up.
“There, you see? It will hold us two com-
fortably, though I guess it will be a little
crowded, coming back with three.”

“Cornin’ back?” Tubby echoed. “Where we
goin’? And why?” Caution is always the bet-
ter part of valor. “Ain’t you rushin’ me, Pro-
fessor? Let’s take a minute an’ get things
straight.”

“A minute!” the Professor said. “Why, I’ve
taken all my life, Tubby, in studying this
thing, working on it. I’m ready now, at last.
But if you insist on technicalities, I’ll ex-
plain.”

He did. Tubby listened, open mouthed.

It was a thrilling project. The Professor
had seen a girl — she was extraordinarily far
away, but still he had seen her — not once, but
many times, for several years now.

“I am able to see her, with what I call my
‘Time-Ocularoscope,’ ” Professor Ikon ex-
plained. “I remember f was roaming with my
vision back and forth through Time. The
future, the past, all the myriad Time-worlds.
And then, quite by accident, I spied her.”

The little Professor sighed, and his far-
away look was so rapt that Tubby realized
this must be a very remarkable girl indeed.

“A good looker?” Tubby demanded.

“The best. The very best, Tubby. Her eyes
particularly.” Professor Ikon sighed again.
“That gaze of hers! So beautiful, so com-
pelling. It has made her Princess of her
world. Its Supreme Ruler.”

E VIDENTLY a remarkable situation in
this strange, distant world had de-
veloped. The Professor quite obviously un-
derstood it thoroughly, through years of
studying it with his Time-Ocularoscope. By
the very power of her beauty and flashing
gaze, this Princess had made everyone in her
world bow to her will.

“Like hypnotizin’ ’em,” Tubby suggested.
*'A«n, I right?”

“Yes. Right. That is, you could call it hyp-
notism, if you wish,” Professor Ikon ad-
mitted. “Though it’s a bit more scientific
than that. I needn’t go into all the technical-
ities.”

“Because she’s a swell-looker, and that’s
the most important thing,” Tubby agreed.
“Okay. Rig up your — whatever that was you
called it — and let’s see her.”

“But we can do better than that, Tubby,”
The Professor’s weazened face was flushed.
He was trembling rll over with excitement.
“My Time-Space-Matter-Mobile will take us
to her. I’ve worked years on it now — all the
best years of my life, and it’s ready.” His
gaze was on the small, canoe-shaped alumi-
num vehicle.

“That?” Tubby murmured. It looked like
a precarious thing to travel in.

“That’s it,” Professor Ikon admitted ten-
derly. “And now, since it’s ready, why waste
effort just looking at the Great Princess when
we can hop in and go to her?”

The logic of his reasoning was perfectly
sound.

“Right,” Tubby agreed.

In his eagerness, the little Professor al-
ready was starting to shove Tubby in. But it
occurred to Tubby that he didn’t yet have all
the facts concerning this thing.

“Just a second, Perfessor,” he said. “What
did you mean? You said you and I are gonna
get to rule the earth and be the best known
and the most powerful people in the whole
world. We’d be the richest too, maybe, huh?”

“We will, Tubby! Of course! The richest
men on earth, because we’ll control every-
thing and everybody. We’ll bend everybody
to our will.”

“Make ’em do what we say? Am I right?”

“That’s it, exactly.”

“But how we gonna do it?” Tubby de-
manded practically. One should have a defi-
nite plan, especially in such a big project.
“And this Princess? What’s she got to do
with it?”

“Everything, Tubby. Absolutely every-
thing.”

It was a very neat and tricky plan which
the Professor had worked out. They would go
now and bring the Princess back with them.
When they had her here, she would master
everyone here on earth, by the strange and
intricately-seientific power of her gaze, just
as she had in her own world.

It sounded quite a lot of mastering for one
lone girl to do, no matter how good a looker

TUBBY— MASTER OF THE ATOM 95

she was, but Professor Ikon was very con-
fident about her powers.

“Believe me, Tubby, she can do it,” he de-
clared earnestly. “I’’-e seen her do marvels
in her own world.” Ikon’s expression was
awed. “I don’t need to bother you with the
technical science of it. How she does it all is
quite technical. But I understand it, Tubby,
and if you insist, I’ll explain.”

“ ’S’quite okay,” Tubby agreed. “If you’ve
really seen her perform, okay!”

“I did. I saw her quell a rebellion. That
was two years ago.”

So they would bring the Princess here, and
she would make everybody in the world obey
her. That was fine, but still Tubby could de-
tect a flaw in the scheme.

“She’ll boss everybody,” Tubby said. “But
who’ll boss her?”

“ You will,” the little professor said tri-
umphantly. “That’s why I need you to go
with me.”

“Me?” Tubby said.

“Of course. Why, I’ve heard of you for
years, Tubby. You’ll charm her — master
her.”

“Will I?”

“Of course you will. The things I’ve heard
about you handling girls are marvelous.
That’s why I wanted to find you tonight. I
had to find you. See?”

“Well, I do get along with girls pretty
good,” Tubby said modestly.

“I know you do. And when you really put
your mind to it, with such gigantic issues at
stake, it’ll be a push-over.”

After all, the Professor’s argument was ir-
refutable. Tubby thumped his chest.

“Okay, Perfessor. Let’s go.”

The little Time-Space-Matter-Mobile was
pretty narrow, but Tubby wedged himself
down into its bottom, with the Professor
sprawled beside him. For such a small ve-
hicle, there were certainly a lot of mecha-
nisms — wires, batteries, and dials. A panel of
dials, like about a hundred tiny clock-faces,
was up in the bow where Professor Ikon was
crouching.

“Now, hold still, Tubby.” The Professor’s
voice was trembling with emotion. This was
certainly a big moment for him, after all his
years of work. “Don’t move now. I’ll adjust
the electrodes on you.”

I T SOUNDED bad, but Tubby held himself
motionless while the Professor fitted an
aluminum cap to his head, with wires down

to his wrists and ankles, clamped there with
metal bracelets. There was also a collar and
belt which went around Tubby, too. Then
Professor Ikon fitted himself up in the same
way.

“And we have a third apparatus for her,”
Professor Ikon said. “You see, I’ve thought
of everything. Now! Brace yourself, Tubby.
I’ll start us.”

The little Professor’s fingers trembled with
eagerness as he fumbled under the inside of
the gunwale. Tubby certainly hoped he
wouldn’t do anything wrong in his excite-
ment.

“Take it easy,” he cautioned the scientist.
“We ain’t in too much of a hurry. Which
way do we go? Maybe you better explain
to me — ”

He had no chance to finish. Professor Ikon
had shoved the switch. It was quite a shock.
Everything got pretty mixed up and con-
fused for Tubby. The laboratory room
swayed dizzily, and then seemed to burst
with a soundless explosion. Or was the ex-
plosion in Tubby’s head? His ears roared.
The blinding light was dazzling.

For a minute he couldn’t see anything. He
just seemed to be swooping around in a big
empty abyss.

Where was the Professor? Where was the
laboratory room?

The effect was certainly peculiar. Tubby
thought maybe he was dead. Then he knew
he wasn’t, because he could feel himself
wedged against the curving sides of the
vehicle and his head was steadying. Every
place he looked brought glimpses of a great,
empty void of gray swaying mist.

The little canoe-shaped vehicle seemed to
be hanging in the center of it. And now
Tubby could see that the gunwale beside him
was becoming luminous. When his hand
happened to touch it, he discovered that it
was warm and throbbing with a rapid, tiny
vibration.

The Professor had been knocked out cold.
He was sprawled out beside Tubby in a
senseless heap. A green phosphorescent
glow made him look awful.

At last he stirred, and sat up dizzily.

“Why — why — oh dear!” he murmured, “I
must have started us too quickly. Are you
all right, Tubby?”

“Sure,” Tubby said. “I guess so.”

They were in full flight. The luminous
hands on all the little dials were stirring.
Some a i the pointers were whizzing around

56 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

so fast Tubby couldn’t see them. But every-
thing was all right now. The Professor was
triumphant.

“Wonderful, Tubby. We’re on our way.”
He rubbed his palms together in triumph.

“On our way, where?” Tubby demanded.
“Listen, Professor, you ain’t yet told me just
where we’re goin’.”

“Well, so far, in Space, we haven’t moved
at all,” Professor Ikon explained. “We’re
just where we started. This is my laboratory
room.”

“Don’t look like it,” Tubby said dubiously.

“No, of course i doesn’t. Because our
movement now is in Time.” He consulted
his dials. “We’ve just passed the year of
Eighteen-fifty. But of course we’re picking
up speed pretty fast now.”

All the changes of these speeding years
were blending together, as Professor Ikon
made clear, so that ill Tubby could see was
a swaying gray abyss.

“We’re goin’ into the past, right?” Tubby
said. “So that’s where the girl lives? Right
here, but back in the past?”

“Well, yes and no,” the Professor said.
“You see, Tubby, it’s a little more compli-
cated than that. First we go back to the early
centuries.”

“How far back?” Tubby asked.

“The year Nine Thousand-and-one B.C.
That’s just roughly speaking, of course.
Naturally, I’ve calculated the exact month,
week and day.”

It sounded like a long distance. Suddenly
Tubby had a startling realization. He was
getting hungry, and thirsty.

“I hope you brought somethin’ to eat and
drink with us, Perfessor,'’ he said. “I ain’t
seen no food around here yet.”

The Professor seemed' to have forgotten
that little detail. But he covered it up.

“Why — my goodness, I think that is hardly
necessary, Tubby. The trip won’t take long,
not to our consciousness of the passing of
time. Why, already we’re — ” he consulted
his dials — “passing Fourteen Ninety-one.
Columbus is just getting ready to discover
America. Of course we’re still moving com-
paratively slowly. But our acceleration is
tremendous. In geometric ratio it’s absolute-
ly terrific.”

They got back to the year One Thousand,
A.D., almost before the Professor realized it,
and that wasn’t a marker to the speed they’d
have presently.

“I think I’d better start moving us in

Space,” the scientist said suddenly. “You
see, in Space the girl is living at what my
calculations show to be Latitude twenty de-
grees two minutes one second North, and
Longitude Eighty degrees, three seconds.
That’s about Little Cayman Island, south of
Cuba. We have to pause there, in Nine
Thousand-and-one, B.C. But from then on,
we don’t go further either in Space or in
Time. We stop.”

T HE Professor had no chance now to ex-
plain anything else. He was too busy
moving them in Space. He pressed a lot of
new levers. Tubby’s head whirled again. All
he could see was that the gray void around
them had started to sway a little more. He
could almost imagine it was drifting back-
ward as they slid forward through it, head-
ing for Cuba. The vehicle throbbed a little
differently. It glowed now with a reddish
tinge.

“Three Thousand, B.C., and we’re passing
over the Space -f about Charleston, South
Carolina,” the Professor announced suddenly.

The little Time-Space-Matter -Mobile was
certainly going places in a hurry. Tubby
was glad the trip would be brief, because now
he was growing very uncomfortable. His
wedged body was cramped. He had also
begun to realize the sides of the vehicle were
getting pretty hot. Worse than that, they
were getting hotter every minute, and he
could smell the choking odor of chemicals.
Something was burning!

“Hey, Perfessor somethin’s wrong!”
Tubby warned. “You better watch out!”
The Professor also had noticed it.

“Oh, dear — oh, dear!” He looked frightened
and confused, which was bad because Tubby
didn’t know how to operate this thing. Ob-
viously plenty of action was needed, right
now, in a hurry.

“Oh, my! I’m afraid!”

Tubby gripped him. “Brace up, Perfessor!
What’s gone sour?”

Something had gone very sour indeed.
The chemical fumes were getting worse. The
gunwale of the vehicle was now so hot Tubby
could hardly sit still.

“I must have put on too much speed!”
Professor Ikon 'wailed. “Dear me!”

The little Time-Space-Matter-Mobile was
running plenty hot! A million of its tiny,
intricate bearings were in danger of burn-
ing up.

“Do somethin’, Perfessor. Listen, we gotta

TUBBY— MASTER OF THE ATOM 97

act quick.”

“Yes. Of course. I’ll act. We’ll have to
land. I — we — -I’ll land us.”

It was certainly a crash landing. The Pro-
fessor’s shaking hands seemed to pull all the
switches at once. Tubby heard him mum-
bling something about the Time of Seven
Thousand, B.C. and the Space of mid-
Florida, and everything jolted into chaos.
The next thing Tubby knew was that he and
the Professor must have catapulted out of
the vehicle, because now they were lying on a
leafy ground. The Professor was trying to
sit up.

“Tubby!” he gasped. “Look!”

Tubby got partly to his feet. The little
canoe-shaped vehicle was here. It didn’t
appear to be smashed. A wisp of green-yel-
low smoke was rising from it and its bow
had dug into a leafy, mouldy soil. But other-
wise it looked all right. None of that was
what the Professor meant. His arm was
shakily gesturing.

“Tubby! Oh, my, goodness!”

All around them was a lush, steaming
jungle. It was gorgeous. But Tubby had no
chance to admire the scenery, because out of
it strange things were coming at a run! A
ring of them, advancing from everywhere!
There were horned brown animals, like
giant antelope; lumbering, monstrous alli-
gators, with yawning jaws ; and great snakes,
like pythons, that slithered along the ground.

In the trees other things scampered, getting
ready to leap. All of them were yelling, with
every kind of animal voice. And in the air,
birds like huge vultures were circling,
swooping down! Mid-Florida in the year of
Seven Thousand, B.C. quite evidently was a
busy place.

And it was the abrupt arrival of the Pro-
fessor and Tubby which had caused the ex-
citement. Tubby needed only one swift look.

“We gotta get outer here!” he yelped.
“Perfessor, this ain’t no place for us.”
Plainly it wasn’t. All these creatures most
certainly were greedily hungry, racing to
beat each other to the meal.

Tubby sprang into action. It was nip and
tuck. He yanked the Professor into the ve-
hicle, and wedged himself down.

“Get us goin’, Perfessor. Snappy now.”
Somehow the still- dazed Professor man-
aged to pull the right levers. Everything
lurched; the ring of hungry animal faces and
slithering reptiles all seemed to dissolve into
grayness. , .

The little Time-Space-Matter-Mobile was
on its way again. It had cooled off and again
was running sweetly.

“Let’s take it kinda slow, eh, Perfessor?”
Tubby suggested. “Don’t wanta heat her up
again.”

E IGHT thousand, B.C. And in Space they
were steadily drifting to the designated
latitude and longitude.

After a while the Professor commenced
slowing up. There was another moment of
chaos as they stopped, but compared to the
crash landing, it was very easy.

Nine Thousand, B.C. Lat. 20° 2 ' 1 " N. Long.
80° 0' 3" W. So far so good. Tubby took a
look around. There was a lot of sand, a
stretch of glassy water and, off to one side,
the edge of a jungle. It was night, with stars
that looked just about as usual.

“Okay,” Tubby said. “Where do we go
now, Perfessor? Don’t have to stop here
long, do we?”

Where they went from there sounded
pretty complicated to Tubby, but the Pro-
fessor assured him that it wasn’t.

“We start right away,” he said. “This is
the right spot, and the right time, but now
we have to go into a different material
world.”

It was like going into the fourth dimension,
Professor Ikon explained. A fourth dimen-
sional world of this exact Time and Space.

“You see?” the Professor said. “In a way,
you could say we’re now going sidewise in
Time, since we go neither forward nor back-
ward, but just hold level. We only stopped
because I was afraid to turn the corner too
quickly.”

“We might skid,” Tubby agreed.

They were off again in a minute, with the
vista of sand and water melting into a dim
shifting void. The little vehicle glowed with
a dim orange sheen now and emitted a faint
humming noise. But the trip was short and
the gunwale didn’t heat up.

“Now!” the Professor murmured. “Here at
last!”

There was quite a nasty jolt, but Tubby
kept his wits. The Professor as usual was
pretty well knocked out, with his head down
on the floor boards and his arms trailing
limply. Briskly Tubby sat up. Somebody
had to be alert, after that experience in the
year of Seven Thousand, B.C.

All was well, but peculiar. The light of
this new world consisted of a faint twilight

98 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

glow. Ribbons of luminescence flickered up
from the rocks. Phosphorescence shim-
mered in the water of a little lake nearby
and glowed in all the branches of the droop-
ing lacy trees.

It was a beautiful, though queer-looking
landscape. Outlines were blurred, as if being
viewed through water. Distant fields were
visible, with the little dark shapes of things
growing in them. Overhead arched the sky,
like a purple vault, very close, so close that
Tubby tried to reach up and touch it, but
found that he couldn’t.

The Professor once more had come to life.
He sat up, felt himself to see if he was all in
one piece, and then looked around triumph-
antly,

“We’re here, Tubby. Wonderful! Exactly
as I calculated. Look! There’s her palace.”

He had certainly steered a neat course to
their destination. Off to the left, part way up
a little rose colored hill, a big, low, shining
building stood under the drooping, fantastic
red and bluish trees.

Tubby was still wearing the electrodes and
■Wires. He started to take them off, but the
scientist stopped him.

“Might as well leave them on, Tubby,”
Professor Ikon said. “Wait, I’ll take along a
set for her. We’ll go get her and bring her
back here.” Ikon gathered up the third set
of wires and electrodes, and hustled Tubby
along a little path that led between tall palm
trees to the palace.

It was a daring scheme, this abduction of a
Princess, particularly one who was so pow-
erful she ruled her world just with a gesture
and a look. Now that the time was at hand,
Tubby grew tense with excitement. He
gazed around apprehensively, but there was
no one else in sight. Everything was deadly
quiet.

“Maybe this is the middle of night here,”
Tubby whispered, as they crept closer to the
dim and silent palace.

The Professor chuckled. “Of course it is.
That was my plan. I figured everything out,
down to the exact second. She’ll be asleep.
We’ll sneak in, wake her up and you’ll make
her come with us.”

Tubby hoped he could.

“Sure, sure,” he agreed.

They moved closer.

“There’s her window,” the Professor mur-
mured. “See it? We’ll climb in.”

Tubby saw it, a little triangular hole in
the flowered red wall of the glowing build-

ing. Big round balls of flowers on long stems
swayed to and fro, here in the palace gar-
dens. They were nearly as tall as Tubby.
As he and the Professor moved furtively be-
tween them, they rustled and stirred as
though frightened. The effect was creepy.

“Lookit,” Tubby whispered. “Them
flowers — they’re afraid of us!”

The Professor cast an uneasy glance at
them. “They do act queer, don’t they?”

UEER was a mild word for it. Tubby
and the Professor had passed through
the garden now. Behind them the ball-
flowers had shifted so that they were clus-
tered together.

Sounds came from them, tiny, muttering,
frightened voices.

They weren’t flowers. They were people!

They had little stick-like brown stems of
bodies, with branching arms and legs and the
round reddish ball at the top which was the
head. For an instant they faintly chattered
in terror.

Suddenly they all turned and ran, vanish-
ing in the dim red, phosphorescent sheen of
the night.

Tubby gasped, but the Professor was re-
lieved.

“Why, I remember now,” he whispered.
“Those are the workers of this world. And
sometimes at night they come to worship
outside the Princess’ window.”

Yet they had run away in terror. Very
good. Tubby expanded his ample pudgy
chest.

“Scared the daylights out of ’em, eh, Per-
fessor?” he said with a chuckle. “If the
Princess has any Palace guards around here,
I’ll handle ’em.”

But no guards appeared. There was a loud
thump as Tubby climbed through the tri-
angular window and went sprawling flat in-
side on the floor. The Professor landed up-
right, but lost his balance and sat down with
a force which was hard enough to rattle the
electrodes he was carrying.

“Sh-h-h!” Tubby whispered. “Quiet!
Don’t fall down so loud, Perfessor.”

They crouched there, panting, and lis-
tened. But nothing unpleasant happened.
The Princess hadn’t waked up. She was over
there, sleeping peacefully on a mound of
rose-colored cushions in the center of the
room.

It was a big, perfumed room. Soft-colored
drapes of delicate tints hung everywhere in

9§

TUBBY— MASTER OF THE ATOM

big folds. Phosphorescent light shimmered
on them. Tubby gazed raptly— not at the
drapes — but at the sleeping Princess.

The Professor hadn’t exaggerated. She was
a swell looker. Her shimmering, pale-blue
robe showed that she had curves in all the
right places, and she was lying gracefully
with one pink-white arm crooked under her
head. Her hair, shining like fine threads of
silver, was spread on the pillow, framing
her face. Nobody could want his girl to
have a nicer face. But the beauty of this one
was somewhat marred, because even now in
sleep, the Princess was wearing big dark
spectacles, like smoked-lens sun-glasses,

“There she is!” the Professor was mur-
muring with awe. “Go wake her up, Tubby.
Charm her, let her know who’s master
around here. Hurry now. We want to get her
out of this place right away.”

He gave Tubby a shove. Waking young
ladies up was not exactly in Tubby’s line, es-
pecially Princesses. But he started forward
masterfully. He didn’t get very far. Un-
fortunately Professor Ikon had put the third
set of electrodes and wires on the floor.
Tubby’s feet got tangled. He fell on his
face, and by the time he had staggered erect
again, the Princess was sitting up in bed,
with her silvery hair falling in a mass over
her slim shoulders. She was astonished as
she stared at Tubby. Next she grew angry.
The glasses hid her eyes, which probably
were flashing royal wrath. Tubby could tell
by the set of her beautiful red lips how
annoyed she felt.

“Rumpff!” the Princess said.

Tubby maintained his dignity. He got to
his feet and smiled his very best smile.

“Hi-ya Princess,” he said. “Pleased to
meet you.”

“Rumpff, scroppf!” the Princess said.

In a way, it began to look as if this could
be tough going. Tubby took another step or
two toward her. The Princess didn’t act
frightened. About the only emotion she was
registering was indignation. Her dainty hand
made a gesture toward her heavy dark spec-
tacles, but she seemed to change her mind
and dropped her hand to the cushion beside
her.

“Rumpff, scroppf, ruzzle!” she said in
sharp tones.

From across the room, the Professor mur-
mured.

“Oh dear’, I forgot she can’t understand
you, Tubby. Maybe if you try Sanscrit or

Lemurianese, she’d get what you mean.”

His voice went into a squeal of terror. It
made Tubby turn, just in time to see the
rose-colored drapes across the room parting.
The Palace guards had arrived!

Tubby gulped and stood staring, numbed.
These weren’t little men with bodies like
flimsy brown sticks. Anything but. In the
folds of the wall-drapes a huge, ugly-look-
ing customer stood looming — a scowling,
massive, hairy villain about eight feet tall!
His naked barrel chest was black with matted
hair. His shoulders were wide and thick as
a gorilla’s. His big-jowled face was scowl-
ing. A thing that looked like a huge meat
cleaver was in his hand. He brandished it
murderously as he rushed at Tubby. Be-
hind him there were other guards, fully as
big and as ugly.

“Oh dear!” the Professor squealed. “Oh,
my goodness.”

The scientist cowered on the floor over by
the triangular window and it occurred to
Tubby that he might leap to safety through
the window, but he was standing so far away
the idea wasn’t practical. Maybe a good stiff
bluff would work.

“Stand where you are, you villain!” Tubby
yelled. “You take one step closer and, s’elp
me, I’ll shoot yuh dead.”

B UT the big villain didn’t get the idea at
all. He kept on coming, with the meat
cleaver raised over his head.

“Tubby! Tubby, watch out!” the Profes-
sor shrieked.

The Princess was sitting up even more im-
periously on her cushions. Again her hand
made a gesture toward her spectacles.

“Gruff qumbess dimarko — ruppf,” the
Princess ordered.

Her command stopped the oncoming hairy
scoundrel. He dropped his meat cleaver and
stood stiff as though frozen. The other scoun-
drels behind him cowered back. The meat
cleaver hit the floor with a clang, slid and
brought up against one of Tubby’s feet. His
chance!

He stooped, seized the cleaver, raised it
over his head and jumped. It was quite a
■ meat cleaver. Its heavy cutting edge struck
the first villain square in the middle of the
skull. As though he were a statue carved out
of soap, the cleaver went down through
him, dividing him neatly in half.

For a second, or so, the two halves of him
stood balanced, each on its leg, then fell,

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

10 ®

with a splintering crash, like glass breaking.

“Whiffi!” the Princess gasped. She was
evidently very much at home with violence.
She flung a glance of contempt at the fallen
giant, and bestowed on Tubby a smile fairly
dripping with admiration.

“Neez,” she murmured. “Nickl.”

Her hand made a little gesture, beckoning
him.

Professor Ikon had recovered himself.
“Wonderful, Tubby! She wants you to
sit down by her. Hurry it up. Don’t be back-
ward.”

Tubby realized it was no time to hesitate.
The other guards had slunk away, but more
might come. He sat down.

“Sorry if I frightened you, Princess,” he
said.

What difference did it make what he said,
since she couldn’t understand him. It was
what he did which would count. He touched
her arm. “You and me could get along swell
maybe?”

“Rickl!" the Princess said. “Sappo ptush.”
“The idea is to get outa here,” Tubby ex-
plained. He made violent gestures toward
the Princess, the Professor, himself and the
triangle of window. “We’re gonna take you
away, see?” He gripped one of her hands.

“Sappo,” the Princess said again. Her lips
were smiling. But Tubby couldn’t see her
eyes and those miserable dark glasses spoiled
her beauty. Tubby impulsively reached for
them, yanked them off and tossed them away.

“Let’s see what you look like, Princess.
You sure are a grand looker and them
cheaters ain’t becomin’. Not at all.”

A gasp from the Princess and a yelp of
horror from the Professor cut short his ad-
miring words.

“Tubby! Tubby! Oh my Heavens.”

“ ’Sail right, Professor. She ain’t mad.”
“Tubby — her eyes!” the scientist screeched.
“Look out! Her eyes are deadly.”

“They’re swell.” For a second her luscious
gaze had swept Tubby. It made him tingle.
Flashing, loving, admiring gaze. But the little
Professor was trying to climb out the win-
dow, squealing with fright.

“Run for your life, Tubby,” he howled.
“Her eyes are the secret of her power. Her
eyes flash neutrons! Slow-moving neutrons!
Oh, I should have told you!”

Slow-moving neutrons, streaming now

from her flashing eyes! Neutrons that would
join the nucleus of the atoms here — and
split them, with an enormous release of
energy from the fission!

The poor Princess was trying now to cover
up her eyes, but it evidently didn’t feel too
good on her hands. Tiny bursts of light rose
from them. In despair she flung an agonized
glance across the room after her spectacles.

Too late! A billion tiny explosions went off
with pin-points of light everywhere she
looked — atoms exploding — one setting off
the other. . . .

There was a second, in the midst of that
horrible atomic roar, light and heat, when
Tubby tried to stagger to his feet. Then a
blast of white-hot pressure flung him down
again. Frantically he clutched the Princess.
She was murmuring with horror, and twitch-
ing, pulling away from him. Tubby could
also hear scraping sounds, such as chairs
being violently moved. Angry voices were
murmuring. Faint, distant voices, coming
closer, clarifying . . .

“Oh migosh, Tubby!” It was Jake’s voice
now. “Leave her be. Are you dotty?”

“Stop him! He’s crazy! There were a
whole lot of other voices.

Tubby opened his eyes.

It wasn’t the Princess he was clutching. It
was the handsome, sleek young woman in
black with the two little bald-headed men
beside her! Tubby discovered that the
crowded lecture hall was in an uproar.

He had slumped forward and sidewise, half
off his chair and was gripping the handsome
young woman vigorously. She had flashed
him a luscious, ravishing look with her dark
eyes when she took off her hat before the
lecture began, but that wasn’t the kind of
look she was giving him now. This one was
a searing flame, devastating as the flash of
an atomic bomb!

“Let go of me,” she screamed. “You nasty
little buttertub!”

Jake grabbed at Tubby. “Leave her be.
We gotta get outer here.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Tubby said.

“Sure have, quick!” Pete agreed. “We
gotta get ourselves outer here.”

But they didn’t have to get themselves
out. A whole platoon of ushers came and
threw them out through the side exit, into
the rain-swept street.

Next Issue’s Novel: I AM EDEN, by HENRY KUTTNER

THE READER STEAKS

(Continued from page 6)

by mistake, so he had had no covers to work from.
Now their backs were turned! Now was the time to
escape!!!!

I touched my nose with my tongue and uttered the
powerful word “Thrillingwonderstoriesthegreatscien.ee-
fictionmagazine!!!!!!’’ There was a flash of lightning,
a terrific roar, and the whole building was tom apart.
I escaped, and so, evidently, did the Sarge and his
crew.

It is now 4:30 A.M., and as I sit here writing, I hear
a noise like the tread of a robot. It is one! No! No!
A-A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-g-h-h-h-h! ! !! ! ! ! !

Seriously, the mag is pretty good except for the
covers. Even they would be okay, if Bergey would
leave out his people. The main trouble is, the people
etc. are emphasized too much. Tone down some of those
poses, and they would be okay. This issue had a
cover that wasn’t so bad, except for the girl.

Now the stories:

I suppose everyone likes to rate the stories, so I
guess I’ll take a try at it too.

First place: Battle of the Brains. Excellent. Many
more Shelton stories.

Second place: The short, Rocket Skin. I like the
original idea. Well told. Good.

Third place: Tie between Rocket Pants and The

Indestructible Man. Fair.

The rest of the stories weren’t so hot. but they were
okay.

I like the flteader’s department. I get a big kick out of
it. I know I can always turn to TWS for entertain-
ment as far as The Reader Speaks goes.

Hey, I just realized that I haven’t told you that I
am a new writer to this column. Hope to keep it up.
If you must have poetry from the readers, why not put
it in a special section.

Since epistoler Brown is a neophyte, we
can, we suppose, forgive him for emulating
such regular predecessors as Joe Kennedy,
Chad Oliver and the like, all of whom have
employed this somewhat maize-spattered
stencil repeatedly. However, this is the last
of them we shall ever print in “The Reader
Speaks.” So be it!

SES in the present issue is one of the
best stories ever written by one of the best
authors of STF extant! Well, Mr. Leinster
has come up with an equally brilliant sequel
entitled THE END, for next issue! Moving
swiftly into the far-distant future, he creates
a world threatened with galactic catastrophe
and unable, thanks to human inertia, to save
itself — until a young rebel with ideas and
imagination defies the powers that are to be,
and saves mankind and the galaxy by an
amazing reapplication of the pocket universe,
safely stored in a museum.

This line-up of Kuttner, Vance and Lein-
ster is one of which we are justifiably proud
—and one which we fervently hope you will
find engrossing and entertaining, as you will
the short stories and the regular features
which accompany the longer fiction works.
The issue should brighten many a dark and
chilly late-fall evening.

LETTERS FROM READERS

While the majority of readers wants the
Sarge changed and changed plenty, he still
has a few who cling to the ancient concept.
Witness the following:

LET THE SARGE STAY

by John M. Cunningham

OUR NEXT ISSUE

HREE feature-yarns headline our next

■ TWS, and all of them should be good
news for readers. The novel is by Henry
Kuttner whose newest science fiction yarns
show that he is certainly burgeoning into
even greater post-war brilliance. In I AM
EDEN, a story of radioactive experiments in a
far corner of the Amazon basin jungle, he
lives up to everything ever promised for him.
It is a yarn that combines pseudo-science
with fantastic horror in a manner which is
not only logical but, perhaps by that very
reason, terrifying almost beyond sanity.

An amazing novelet, PHALID’S FATE, is
by Jack Vance, our brilliant discovery of
1945. With his powerful writing talent and
fresh imagination, Vance has tackled the
problem of the meeting between human and
insect brains which has long been a subject
of STF speculation and come up with an en-
tirely new slant. This story should serve to
establish Jack Vance as an important name
in the field.

Murray Leinster’s POCKET UNIVER-

Dear Sgt. Saturn: Whatzis I hear? Sgt. Saturn to be
honorably discharged? Nix, you can’t do it — there’s a
war still on ya know — and the good Sarge must see
it through as all good Americans should. Let the
honored assembly at the NEWARK STF-CON say what
they may — we want Sgt. Saturn — so there!

To impound my views on the latest TWS is now my
task at hand. The cover is rather a grotesque affair,
a bit on the “sexy’’ side. It’s interesting to note some
“yokel” is advertising . in the various “fanzines” now
for more "sex in Science Fiction”. I myself am cam-
paigning for more PSYCHOLOGICAL angles in stories.

In “ Battle of the Brains” it’s evident author Shelton
knows more on this subject than Rockets — if a recent,
statement of his in a competitive magazine is to be
taken for merit. Rockets, I surmise, are a bit too fast
for his “brain” to register accurately.

The “shorts” were of unusually high calibre — bring-
ing into full light that these writers are still masters
of STF.

READER SPEAKS still rates the usual "tops ”. — 2050
Gilbert Street, Beaumont, Texas.

Thanks for the kind words, Reader Cun-
ningham — but, alas or otherwise, your “we”
who want the Sarge as of yore seems to be
a trifle too much on the editorial side. If you
prefer psychology to sex, that’s your affair —
personally the Sarge feels each has its place
in human affairs. And as for Mr. Shelton on
the subject of rockets, we think he does bet-
ter than all right.

Now let’s turn to the next letter.

102 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

OUT OF A TIME WARP OR
SOMETHING

by Dr. S. W. Russell

Dear Sir : The other day I ran across a copy of your
magazine TWS, Vol. S, No. 2, dated October, 1936, in
the house of one of my patients. I borrowed it and
read it. I have become interested and would be very
grateful if you could let me have the following in-
formation—'

(1.) Would it be possible for you to let me have
any of the back numbers which are available?

(2.) Could I place an order with you to send me
current numbers as and when they become available?

{3.) Could you let me know the cost of the available
past issues if you can let me have them?

If you can and the outlay is not too large, I will
send you a money order for the amount, including
postage before you despatch the books. I cannot en-
close a stamped envelope for your reply as American
Stamps in England are only to be found in albums. —
Bank House, Bromyard, Hereford, England.

A lot of heavy water has poured over the
TWS dam since October, 1936, Dr. Russell.
As for your obtaining back copies from us,
that is, alas, impossible at the moment. But
I’m printing your letter in the hope that some
of our bartersome collectors will get in touch
with you and enable you to work out some-
thing.

You can subscribe to TWS or to STAR-
TLING STORIES, its companion magazine,
by sending us a money order for $2.40, which
includes postage. Domestic subscriptions
cost $1.80. Such a subscription is of two
years’ or twelve copies’ duration.

TRACE OF PACE

by Tom Pace

Dear Sarge: The best tale In the Spring TWS was
Shelton’s BATTLE OF THE BRAINS. Swell . . . ! Shel-
ton is rapidly climbing up the list.

Bradbury’s ROCKET SKIN was second. His style is
unique. I like it and ROCKET SKIN Is a good example.
I’ve never run across the idea of hitch-hiking on
rockets before. Dunno, it should be quite different
from hoboing on tfains.

FIND THE SCULPTOR was good, but I’ve read that
plot before. For that matter, what plot haven’t I?
Only one out of the many, like Bradbury’s. It’s still
good.

UNDERMOST and ROCKET PANTS were very
readable STF. I usually enjoy Leinster's stuff a great
deal. LIKE DUPS was appealling — fantasy mixed with
STF.

TONE’S PHYSIQUE was a neat little yam. But when
Kirkland fastened Locks and Jones in the cabinet, why
wasn’t Jones shrunk some more?

The cover was fair, although the machine did not
look convincing. Why not a smooth-skinned feature-
less metal cigar, such as the story described?

DEAD CITY looks good. A perfect issue of TWS
would include BATTLE OF THE BRAINS . . . DEVILS
FROM DARKONTA . . . THINGS PASS BY (Leinster}

. . . THE WORLD THINKER (Vance) . . . SWORD OF
TOMORROW (Kuttner) . . . FORGOTTEN WORLD
(Hamilton) . . . THE DISCIPLINARY CIRCUIT (Lein-
ster)— in other words, the seven best stories out of
the last five issues.

If you could only give us an issue with Kuttner,
Leinster, Shelton. Hamilton, Vance. . . .

Oh-oh— one yarn I forgot. It’s the sort of tale that
grows on you. . . . George Whitley’s ONE CAME
BACK, last Fall. I have a good idea who George
Whitley is — and that’s quite a tale too. — Eastaboga,
Alabama.

We don’t know why Jones didn’t shrink

some more, but it didn’t spoil the story for us.
The metal cigar might have — to say nothing
of the cover. But let it pass for the nonce.

As for your issue with Kuttner, Leinster,
Shelton, Hamilton and Vance, we come pretty
close to your ideal with novelets by Kuttner,
Leinster and Vance slated for next issue. The
only short story definitely scheduled is by
Arthur Leo Zagat, much too long involved
with OWI labors from which he is recently
released. That should hurt no one’s feelings,
nor should a tentatively scheduled short story
by Keith Hammond. And there will be others,
perhaps a Hamilton to bring your dream
closer to reality, Tom. We have nothing new
from Shelton on hand at the present. Too
bad.

MORE APPROBATION

by Ray Corley

Dear Sarge: My pal! Greetings! Hello. Glad to sea
you. Yes indeed. You deserve a pat on the back.
Great issue. Best yet.

Again Earle Bergey has startled the word of Fan-
dom. The eternal triangle seems to have been dis-
posed of. No BEM, Babe and Hero this issue. Just
BEM and Babe. Huzza! Huzza! But since when has
Earth a yellow sky?

Enough of sorrow. Let us be happy. This is the
time when my thoughts turn fondly to rating the
stories. I know it’s an awful ordeal for you, Sarge.
but it must be done. Duty calls!

BATTLE OF THE BRAINS— Good grief! Another
robot story. But I loved it. Splendid writing. Won-
derful plot. Reminded me of Adam Link.

INDESTRUCTABLE MAN— Hamilton is sinking. This
is not like the old days.

UNDERMOST — I liked it, but though it would be
simple to put a friction solvent on the car alone,
how would they do it on a thousand miles of tunnel?

ROCKET PANTS— Fair.

FIND THE SCULPTOR — A very good time-machine
story. It reminds me of the time I. . . . No. I’d better
not tell it. Ye Sarge might take it to heart when I
told him I found a Xeno-guzzling creature in the
long-ago past. Could it be one of your ancestors,
Sarge?

JONES’ PHYSIQUE — Very well written. The true
life of myself.

ROCKET SKIN — Alas! Ray Bradbury has sunk
into the depths of solitude. I refuse to comment on.
the story, as I do not use that kind of language.

LIKE DUPS — Perfect! Speaking of Murray Leinster,
when is he going to give us. another story like THE
ETERNAL NOW?

THE READER SPEAKS — 'Ron Anger, I salute you!
Yes indeed!! That beautiful (?) drawing is a per-
fect picture of Ye Sarge.

Weil! Well! See my letter is first this month. A
fine choice, Sarge. You know talent when you see
it. (Yas, I’ll give you the jug of Xeno I promised.
Here. GURGLE! GURGLE!)

Leon Bimbaum! You evil creature, how dare you
call TWS tripe? You dare to compare Kuttner’s
HOLLYWOOD ON THE MOON and DOOM WORLD
to Lovecraft? Why the plot of IN THE VAULT could
be used to a thousand times better advantage by one
of our modem writers. Give it to a newcomer like
Leroy Yerxa or Gardener F. Fox and you would have
a STORY instead of a sketch full of flowery adjectives.

You had best retract your statement. Robert Bloch
is not half as good as H. P. Lovecraft. but ttoice as
good. We fans do not like to have our favorite writers
pulled through the mire. Not that Robert Bloch is
my favorite writer — he is not. I just gave him as an
example.

By the way, what’s wrong with three-issue-old
readers? At one time you had only read three issues,
hadn’t you? If it were not for new readers and authors
Science-fiction would become stale.

And now, Sarge, let me tell you of my little time
journey.

THE READER SPEAKS 1W

Ah yes. 1 can remember it as if it were but yester-
day. (It was.)

I worked on my invention for many moons. Summer
came and went south for the winter. At last I finished.

Bidding goodbye to my fellow dogs (of the hound
variety) I seated myself and took the controls in my
strong (!) bronzed hands.

I was blinded for a second, and then sight returned.
I was standing on the warm earth of yesteryear.

A caveman approached me, peering beneath beetled
brows. Then I knew I would be the first civilized
man to hear an ancient caveman of the stone age.
He opened his huge mouth and grunted:

“What’s cookin’, Jackson?”

"I am," I replied. "I’m your great-great-great-
great-great-grandson. I come from the FAIR Cities of
tomorrow.”

“By the way you pronounce the word ‘FAIR’ I pre-
sume your name is LaGuardia. Be I right?”

I saw red. I shouldn’t have done what I did next,
but I couldn’t help myself. I put on my black hat,
grabbed the funny papers, and said:

“And now, kiddies, Breathless Mahony hits the
gardener with a hammer.” — 16 E. 24th St., Bayonne,
N.J.

This, on the whole, is another example of
the kind of letter not to write the Sarge in the
future. But the sentiment is sweet by and
large and we are well aware of the fact that
transitions should not be made too abruptly.
Watch your tendency to compare authors.
Such comparisons are definitely malodorous
if carried to extremes.

A NEOPHYTE DOTH WRITE

by Joe Hayhurst

Dear Sarge: Well! That spring ish was really

somethin’. Every time I read your mag X decide to
write in and express my opinions. But, I never get
around to it. This time I simply must express my
gratitude for “Battle of the Brains.” There was a
scientifiction tale that really hit the spot. The idea of
human brains deposited in metal bodies intrigues me.

As for the rest of the stories, “Rocket Skin” and
“Find the Sculptor,” were, in my opinion, the best of
the lot, with “Like Dups,” and “Indestructible Man,”
following. “Undermost” was hackish, and “Jones’
Physique” just doesn’t rate.

The cover. I like pin-ups too, Sarge, but not on my
stf covers. I would like to see what goes on in Mr.
Bergey’s mind as he laughingly paints BEM’s, despite
the protests of hundreds of fen, and gleefully draws
beautiful babes with a few scraps of very form-fitting
clothing hanging on with the aid of a tom strap. Really,
Sarge, it’s getting to where I’m ashamed to walk down
the street with a copy of TWS unless it is folded under
my arm.

The pictures for “Battle of the Brains” were both
very good.

By the way, you said you wanted more answers to
the Cosby poll. Here’s mine:

1. One novel per issue is plenty.

2. Four or five pictures to a novel is possible.

3. Enough for an effective story.

4. One or two. j

5. Four

6. None. Save the space for S-F.

7. a. Story behind the story,
b. The reader speaks.

8. It would be nice.

9. YES! Very much.

10. Depends on the quality of the stories.

11. Four bits or a dollar.

12. No; ugh!

13. Never would be too soon.

14. As often as possible.

15. Series stories have a way of getting in a rut.
Like Lefty Feep.

16. Serials are swell, if good enough to hold your
interest from month to month.

17. I like all the artists some of the time, and some
of them all of the time. Especially Finlay.

18. None.

Well, that’s about all for now, Sarge, and keep up
the good (?) work. — Belton , Texas..

Thanks for the Cosby rating, Mr. Hayhurst.

But as for the fan beeves about the covers,
they do sell magazines regardless of fen
opinion. So your purists will continue to get
them come what may. Why not fold your j
inhibitions under your arms instead of TWS? :
And if you want long novels, read STAR-
TLING STORIES. That’s where we print'
them, one per issue.

WEINBAUM OR ATOM BOMB?

by Gerry de ia Ree

Dear Sarge: Here I go again. It seems to me I’ye ,
made this same plea a number of times and I guess
I’ll just keep on until someone does something about it*

One of the best science fiction authors ever intro-
duced by Wonder Stories was Stanley G. Weinbaum,
I’m sure that most fans will agree 1 with this statement.
Why, in Heaven’s name, can’t you set aside one issue
of either TWS or STARTLING for a Weinbaum
Memorial number?

Your two magazines published a total of eleven
Weinbaum yams, among them three of his best —
“The Black Flame," “Dawn of Flame” and “A Martian
Odyssey.” I realize that just about every Weinbaum
short you have the copyright on has been reprinted
at one time or another in SS, but I’m certain that your
readers would all like to see these stories combined
into one issue of the magazine.

From a money angle you would gain on the issue,
for the stories are already yours. About your only
expenses on this issue would be for art work, which
you must have for each number anyway. Perhaps your
publisher is against a reprint ^blicy— 4his I wouldn’t
know.

It’s only a suggestion, but to get “The Black Flame,”
“Dawn of Flame” and six or seven Weinbaum shorts in
one issue would be worth considerably more than 15c
to me — and to others, also, I assume. — 9 Bogert Place,
Westwood, New Jersey .

As one of the most active of eastern fan
magazine publishers and one of the more
thoughtful students of STF, Mr. de la Ree de-
serves an answer to his plea. First, we agree
heartily with him on the merits of the work
of the late Stanley G. Weinbaum. He de-
serves all the reprinting the paper supply
will stand.

Furthermore, all eleven of the stories
printed in the old WONDER MAGAZINE
have been republished as Hall of Fame Clas-
sics in STARTLING STORIES. Which is
pretty good proof of the above pudding.

But our magazines are primarily and en-
tirely (with the exception of the H-of-F
Classics in SS) devoted to the publication of
new science fiction and fantasy. To stop dead
in our tracks to reprint an all- Weinbaum
issue would hardly be encouraging to our
authors in these days of bi-monthly publi-
cation.

So if Mr. de la Ree’s request is ever ful-
filled, it will have to be in the nature of some
special supplementary publication — and in
these days of still-limited paper supply, such
a publication is out of the question. Sorry.

TANNING THE SARGE'S HIDE

by Alvin R. Brown

Dear Sarge: Now we have it, now we don’t. By
that I mean quality in dear old TWS. To illustrate,
take the present issue. Spring, 1946.

Starting from the cover, a series of groans issues

104 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

from my ruby red lips. Is that art? Maybe I’m crazy,
but I don’t think so. Can’t you find someone better
than Bergey?

Your stories collectively aren’t worth a plugged
nickel. The best in the issue is LIKE DUPS by Lein-
ster, but only because it had no competition. The
issue as a whole doesn’t even count as far as I’m
concerned.

The illustrations aren’t even worth talking about.
Suffice to say that the cuts for the ads were better
than the story pics.

One letter in the reader speaks interested me. So an
open letter to Mr. Birnbaum.

"Dear Mr. B., One thing you forget, HPL was not
a science fiction writer. I’ve been reading S-F for
8 or 9 years but I still consider HPL a fine writer
of horror and fantasy BUT DEFINITELY NOT OF
SCIENCE FICTION. If Mr. B. will read “The Best
of Science Fiction” edited by Graff Conklin, he’ll
find out what I mean.

“And you really left yourself wide open in your
last paragraph. Have you ever read anything by
Weinbaum or CA Smith or EE Smith, etc? I also have
read quite a bit of Lovecraft, but you stick to horror
and fantasy and I’ll take my S-F straight with no
AZATHOTH, CTHULHU or YOG-SOTHOTH to annoy
me.” — 139-29 34th Road, Flushing, New York.

They are annoying, aren’t they, Reader
Brown? As for that, so are your other ex-
pressed opinions.

XENO IS BACK

by Tom Jewett

Dear Ghoul (pardon me, I saw your picture) : Just
read the Spring issue of TWS. It contains the best
collection of stories you’ve published in a coupla
eons.

In first place with 8 Xeno highballs is “Battle of
the Brains.” This was darn good. Especially the
beginning with the description of the awakening
of the brain of James Mason. I wondered how you
were going to introduce a female interest. Speaking
of females (and who isn’t), the pic on Page 13 was
very good.

Next with 5 Scotch-and-sodas is “Indestructible
Man.” A darn good story by Cap Future’s papa.
A unique plot. A novel part was where Carl played
mumble-de-peg on Ryan’s chest. I bet that tickled.

Third with 4 whiskey-sours is “Rocket Skin.” It
oses a new thought on the aspects of space-travel.

never thought about it that way.

"Lend me your horse-shoe magnet, Junior. Daddy’s
got to make a quick business trip to Mars.” or —
“Don’t kick Daddy apart from the skin, Junior. He’s
carrying our overnight bags!”

Fourth with 2 Tom Collinses is "Rocket Pants.” Also
good. “Don’t glue Daddy's pants to the sky rocket,
Junior. He gets ‘high’ often enough as it is!”

Fifth with a mint julep is "Undermost” or "Hell-
bound Subway.” I’ve been told to go to hell before,
but it’s too much when I got to pay my own car-
fare. Anyway, it’s a good story.

Next comes the other three with a jump into Vat 69.
These were good, but not as good as the others.

The cover painting by "Bruiser” Bergey was good.
EXCEPT (see how I sneaked that in) — the brain
wouldn’t need all those port-holes to see with, would
he? He sure is using those claws to good advantage!

Noticed Mr. Anger’s portrait of you, Sargey. Haw,
I didn’t think anybody else had dreams like mine.

Inside pics: Best are on pages 13 and 15. I kinda
like those symbolic pictures like that on page 15, I
do wish you’d get somebody else in Marchioni’s
place.

Your letter dep’t wasn’t up to par this ish. How
about starting a real high-power discussion in your
colyums. Maybe like how many molecules per cubic
centimeter in space. Or something harder. Anyway,
something anybody above a moron can sink his teeth
in. After all, not all of us have graduated. I didn't
have any physics in school, so I’m practically ignorant.

Look, Sargey, I think you’re making an issue out of
not letting Thomas or O’Donnell sign their names
to their artwork. You could put a line at the bottom
of the page telling the artist. Don’t worry about us
not having anything to gripe about. We’ll find some-
thing if we gotta haul out our “Little Peachy” electron
microscopes.

Tell Ray Corley to make a noise like an air raid
siren and blow.

Mr. G. U. Imditt— what are you spelled backwards?

Tom Wade — what you got against pinups?

About your portrait, Sarge. You look like one of
my ghoul-friends. So long for now. — 670 George
Street, Clyde Ohio.

All we can say, outside of remarking that
Mr. Jewett certainly seems to be more easily
satisfied than the majority of letter writer-
inners, is that he certainly seems to have re-
verted to tripe — the old tripe — the tripe the
Sarge is desperately trying to escape. Per-
haps we can wish our three gremlins on him.

WHERE'S KENNEDY?

by Gene Hunter

Dear Sarge: Are we still double -spacing these

things? I’ve forgotten. Oh well, little matter. Firstly,
what’s happened to all the old guards of letterhax in
THE READER GIBBERS? Anger’s the only guy I
vaguely remember. Kennedy must be dead or some-
thing. He must be. I haven’t heard from him nor
received VAMPIRE in ages.

Even my one-time correspondent Chad Oliver is
among the missing this time. And who’s seen that
old contributor, Jay Chidsey? Haven’t seen an epistld
by him in eons. Given up fantasy, Jayhawk? Then
there’s Krueger — and Hamel — and Pace — all unac-
counted for in some time.

Hmmmm. Perhaps this letter will stir some of the
boys out of hiding. Going back even further in the
haze that envelopes the old issues of TWS, remember
the days of that slap-happy sergeant (no, not you),
Jerry Mace? And that little twerp who used to
disagree with everything I said, Ronnie Maddox?

Not to mention Ebey, Carter (he’s overseas — poor
guy) , Waible, “O-but-G” Kinkade, and others? I
could go even further back to the days of Hidley and
D. B. Thompson, but I won’t. Perhaps I'm in a
nostalgic mood tonight. But seriously, I’d like to see
some of that old bunch turn up again in these pages.

Must Hunter carry on alone? Then so be it

THRILLING WONDER STORIES, Spring 1946. Not
a bad issue at all, Sarge. Not as good as Summer
(2.9) or the last ish (3.1), but still pretty good.

First, the cover. That walking-leaping-surface-craft-
submarine -fly-by -night gizmo in the background is
equal to the best ever done by Rogers. I didn’t dis-
like the unfortunate shemale in the foreground, either,
Brother Bergey. You’ve proved again that you can
do excellent work, given the right scene to work
with. Mr. B. takes home a 3.0 classification.

Thomas (?) takes first place in the interior depart-
ment with 3.0, while Marchioni and Morey, both better
than usual, grab off 2.5.

Stories :

1. BATTLE OF THE BRAINS— Jerry Shelton— 3.8.
Very good, Shel. Just about the best you’ve done.
Some of your yams I haven’t cared for in the past
(DEVILS FROM DARKONIA, to mention one) but this
redeems everything nicely.

2. ROCKET SKIN — Ray Bradbury — 3.0. Very neat.
Brad has evolved more new ideas than any other
stf or fantasy writer in the past couple of years. Now
if he’d just work on some longer stuff. . . .

3. UNDERMOST — Manly Wade Wellman— 3.0. Manly
hasn’t turned out anything really outstanding in a long
time, I’m afraid, but he keeps on a pretty even keel.
Hasn’t done any really poor work lately, either. How
about some more petal-pussed Martians one of these
days?

4. LIKE DUPS — Murray Leinster — 3.0. How do you
pronounce that, anyway? Dupps — dupes — or what?
Never mind. Nicely done, Mr. Jen — er, Mr. Leinster.
Another one of my long-time favorites.

5. ROCKET PANTS— Noel Loomis— 2.5. Here we
begin to drop down to the average level on our little
poll. Nice space adventure, but after all. . . .

6. INDESTRUCTIBLE MAN— Edmond Hamilton— 2.5.
Shades of Superman! Not as good as the same author’s
novel last time, but still passable.

7. FIND THE SCULPTOR— Samuel Mines— 2.5. Old
idea, old treatment, still good.

8. JONES’ PHYSIQUE— Wilm Carver— 2.5. I'm hold-
ing my breath waiting for all those self-styled
scientists to start prattling about this size reduction-

megs business again. It’s inevitable, of course.

That’s all Sarge. You put together a nice issue
this time, taking a 2.8 average. You’ve done a lot
worse in the past. Don’t let this bi-monthly business
lower your standards any.— 2503 Burton Avenue,
San Gabriel, California.

We shall try not to, Reader Hunter. As a
matter of fact, materials on hand and due
to come in shortly should lift the level higher
still. Most of the boys who can really con-
ceive and write fine STF are back on the job.
So — stay with it. It should prove worth while.

As to the absence of the hacks 'supreme,
Kennedy, Oliver, et al, it seems highly prob-
able that they have passed through or are
emerging from the phase of writing the Sarge.
Their epistles show up much more rarely
these days.

However, a check of back issues should
serve to reveal to you that writer-inners
come and go in groups, and that a letter de-
partment such as THE READER SPEAKS
rises and falls with them. Fortunately, a new
gang always seems to step in and pick up the
slack.

Still, if the above mentioned Kennedy and
Oliver are missing, such regulars as Gene
Hunter, Tom Pace and Rick Sneary are on
hand to stand up for the old guard. At least
we are getting plenty of mail. And here is
one who preceded all of those you mention,
back for another crack at the Sarge after a
long hitch in the Marines.

FROM THE SHORES
WEST GASTONIA

by Wilkie Connor

OF

Dear Sarge: About two years ago, Uncle Sam needed
a few Marines for his Third Marine Division, so he
yanked this humble person away from STF and
plunged him into places where TWS and STF were
unknown! I’ve been released a month, and I’ve
strayed back into the fold of TWS fans with the
Spring issue.

From the bottom of my heart, I can say I think TWS
is an excellent magazine. The stories aren’t as deep
and “high-toned” as some of the others, but I find
they have a “human” quality and a certain amount
of “story” that makes up for their often trite plots.
And, as the Bard said, “The ‘Story’ is the thing!”

There is bound to be a certain amount of triteness
in every basic story plot, regardless of what fiction
field used. There are just thirty-six (I think, without
looking it up) “dramatic situations.” I must hand it to
your authors for their ingenuity in their handling of
these situations and very, very often manage to pull
a brand new chestnut from an old fire!

When I first became acquainted with STF in the
ancient days of Ray Cummings’ “Girl of The Golden
Atom” people often sneered at the perverted minds
who could dream of such impossibilities. I couldn’t
restrain .my laughter, when, out on the Guamanian
boon -docks on maneuvers, we first got word of the
atomic weapons being used on Japan. I wonder if the
atom bomb is a product of a “perverted” mind?

Now that radar has conquered space, how long
will it be, I wonder, until man himself traverses the
unknown? Or should we still call it the unknown?
For via radar pictures, the “unknown” should soon
become the “known” — even before man personally
visits the outer voids, he will find it possible to
know, far better than any telescope could tell, just
exactly what the scoop is — just exactly what he’s
running into ! Eight?

[ Turn page}

105

Earned

$400 the First Year

“Last year I made around
$400, and it was the first year
I really started to write. Your
course is the best way to get
expert instruction in profes-
sional writing.” — T. Edward
Karlsson, 224 East 79th St.,
New York, N. Y.

What makes

WRITING ability GROW?

For a number of years, the Newspaper Institute of Amer-
ica has been giving free Writing Aptitude Tests to men and
women with literary ambitions.

Sometimes it seems half the people in America who are
fired with the desire to write have taken advantage of this
offer to measure their ability.

What the tests show

Up to date, no one who could be called a “born writer'*
has filled out our Writing Aptitude Test, We have not yet
discovered a single individual miraculously endowed by
nature with all the qualities that go to make up a suc-
cessful author.

One aspirant has interesting ideas — and a dull, uninter-
esting style. Another has great creative imagination but is
woefully weak on structure and technique. A third has a
natural writing knack — yet lacks judgment and knowledge
of human behavior. In each case, success can come only
after the missing links have been forged in.

Here, then, is the principal reason why so many promis-
ing writers fail to go ahead. Their talent is one-sided —
incomplete. It needs rounding out.

Learn to write by writing

■JVT ISVVSPAPER Institute training is based on journalism — continu-
JLN ous writing — the sort of training that turns out more successful
writers than any other experience. Many of the authors of today’s
“best sellers” are newspaper- trained men and women.

One advantage of our New York Copy Desk Method is that it starts
you writing and keeps you writing in your own home, on your own
time. Week by week, you receive actual assignments Just as if you
were right at work on a great metropolitan daily.

All your writing is individually corrected and criticized by veteran
n’fovc! TrnH> va9to ct Avnoriorin.A "TwAa.irino' in" new authors. They

writers with years of experience “breaking in'
will point out those faults, of style, struc-
ture or viewpoint that keep you from pro-
gressing. At. the same time, they will give
you constructive suggestions for building up
and developing your natural aptitudes.

In fact, so stimulating is this associa-
tion that student-members often begin to
sell their work before they finish the course.

We do not mean to insinuate that they sky-
rocket into the “big money" or become
prominent overnight. Most beginnings are
made with earnings of $25, $50, $100, or
more, for material that takes little time to
write — stories, articles on business, hob-
bies, sports, travels, local, club and
church activities, etc. — tilings that can
easily be turned out in leisure hours, and
often on the impulse of the moment.

For those who want to
know — Free Writing
Aptitude Test

If you really want to know the truth about your writing
ambitions, send for our interesting Writing Aptitude Test. This
searching test of your native abilities is free — entirely without
obligation. Fill in and send the coupon. Newspaper Institute of
America, One Park Ave., New York 16, N. Y. (Founded 1925)

NOTICE TO
CANADIANS

Newspaper Insti-
tute’s operations
in Canada have
been approved by
the Foreign Ex-
change Control
Board. To fa-
cilitate all finan-
cial transactions,
a special permit
has been assigned
to their account
with The Cana-
dian Bank of
Commerce, Mon-
treal.

VETERANS: This course approved for Veterans 9 Training j

Newspaper Institute of America
One Park Ave., New York 16, N. Y.

Send me, without cost or obligation, your
Writing Aptitude Test and further information
about writing for profit.

Mr. T

Mrs. V

Miss J

Address

( ) Check here if you are eligible under the G.I. Bill of Rights.

(All correspondence confidential. No salesman will call on you.) 94-P-436

Copyright 1946, Newspaper Institute of America.

106 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

“Battle of the Brains” was a good yam, but it
seemed to be a condensed novel. It should have
been drawn out, mellowed and ripened into a full-
bodied tale. Then, it would have merited a place
amongst the great yams of all time, instead of being
merely just another good story.

Your best artists never sign their names. Are they
ashamed?

Now that the paper shortage has been relieved,
how’s about that annual we were discussing along
about the time Japan became ambitious ? — Box 2392,
West Gastonia, North Carolina.

Welcome back, Mr. Conner. It was our
humble belief that the Bard said, “The Play’s
the thing,” but we suppose the “story” is in-
terchangeable with the same. As to the
thirty-six possible dramatic situations, only
about one-third of them are publishable by
modern-standards of moral taste. The others,
stemming from the Greeks, have acquired a
lot of unprintable names for themselves that
would astonish even the average woman’s
club reader group.

The world is still out debating the decision
as to the mind of the inventor of the atom
bomb — inventors, rather. And our artists sign
their names when they feel like it and the
art editor doesn’t cut off too much of the
bottoms of their pictures. Annuals are still
beyond our present plans, thanks to the paper
set-up. But the near future should reopen
the discussion.

ANOTHER VET SOUNDS OFF

by Garvin Berry

Dear Sarge: Have just robbed the Army of its
brightest luminary with intentions of switching said
b.l. back to stf fandom. First duty of course was to
try out all pro mags to decide which to resume read-
ing. Yours was one of the few to pass the test al-
though not, I’m afraid, with flying colors. Opinions
herewith attached.

Spr., ’46 issue. Cover: Bergey can plan & paint at
least an adequate cover, so why this sort of thing?

Stories: In general, too much cops- ’n’ -robber at-
mosphere with a faint haze of melodrama befoggin’
the air. Assay about 55% hack too. Several good
authors here, but not up to par, esp. Leinster & Brad-
bury.

1. BATTLE OF BRAINS — Fairly good. Should have
been longer for more complete development of
human-machine relations, Klarth’s aims, etc. Could
stand a sequel; in fact, a series here would make the
old Zorome yarns look like comic strip drama.

2. ROCKET SKIN — 2nd because I like Bradbury
even in his more hackish moments. The space hitch-
hiker idea was new to me.

3. LIKE DUPS — Like Leinster even in his ditto
moments too. Aged plot, but nice work on the
Martians esp. the fascinating plants-for-everything
idea. Pains me, though, the way some of the more
imaginative boys dream up a beautiful set-up like
this to be discarded after one second-rate yarn.

4. UNDERMOST — Like most Wellmans, carefully
planned, coherent & readable. I like MMW; never
know when he’ll pop up with a TWICE IN TIME.

Rest of issue is pure trivia. Hamilton is intrinsically
better than MMW. but rapid writing carelessness &
formula usually ruin him as amply shown in this
feeble imitation of Weinbaum’s ADAPTIVE ULTI-
MATE called ROCKET PANTS which has a dated plot,
sloppy writing, insipid characterization. The other
two shorts are throwbacks to the oldest time-travel
plots & Ray Cumming’s Tubby plus his myriad ver-
sions of Golden Atom shrinkage.

I wish it were THE READER SPEAKS instead of
SGT. SATURN SPEAKS. I hated the SS inanity when
it first infiltrated in ’40-’41; it’s even worse now that
it has reached its putrescent peak. G. U. Imditt — apt
cognomen, there — of Phoenix (May Klone smile be-
nevolently upon him) has aptly expressed my feelings

same for the regurgitation which seizes me each time
I see the infantile trash. This wasted space could be
much better utilized for a revival of the Science Fiction
League. — 1107 Fugate Street, Houston, Texas.

Well, perhaps you prefer the Sarge in cur-
rent guise — we hope. Otherwise, we are
crushed, never to rise again — but take no
money on that one.

STREIFF KILLS STREIFF

by Telis Streiff

Dear Sarge: I have decided to honor you with my
comments (whoops) on the Spring Thrilling Wonder
Stories. First-off the cover . . . altho the colors are
gaudy the artistic point of view is fine. But on the
cover there are teeth in the talons, but on the inside
(page 13) there are no teeth . . . why?

Four novelets and four shorts, but (I use that word
a lot, don’t I) there is no novel . . . again I ask why?

BATTLE OF THE BRAINS by Jerry Shelton ... if
this had been made into a novel it would have been
a true classic. As it is, it’s a wonderful novelet.

INDESTRUCTIBLE MAN by Edmond Hamilton . . .
this is a very poor excuse for stf ... we get enuf
of Superman in the funnies.

UNDERMOST by Manly Wade Wellman. Well I
guess it was QX.

ROCKET PANTS by Noel Loomis . . . BBuurrpp.

FIND THE SCULPTOR ... by Samuel Mines . . .
“THEY SCULP” was better, get the connection?
QX . . . I'll bite, who did make the statue?

JONES’ PHYSIQUE by Wilm Carver , . . reminds
me of the Tubby stories. However in places it was
funny (?),

ROCKET SKIN by Ray Bradbury . . . fine . . . but
would a person who knew that only one out of every
three would live try that journey? Not I. I rather value
my life.

LIKE DUPS by Murray Leinster . . . hell heh heh
well I guess Breen got what he was after. I still value
my life.

THE READER SQUEEKS (oops parden) More crazy
letters more droopy replies more morons more idiots.
Hmmmmmm why don’t you end it all Sarge, drink
MARTIAN VARNISH (a drink) and jump out a space
lock . . . without your space suit. — 548 North Dellrose,
Wichita 6, Kansas.

And your letter is by far the droopiest in-
cluded in this issue, Reader Streiff.
Straighten up, et cetera! We have already
explained that, if you want a novel, you’ll
find it in STARTLING STORIES. TWS is
not conceived for stories of that length.
Which should answer the query for all time.
Next. . . .

SNEARY'S HEARY

by Rick Sneary

Dear Sarge: Well after a long wait you finally did
send good old TWS into this part of the country. I
thought you were mad or something.

As always I have a word about the cover. It’s
not bad this time, for a change. At least he has a
rocket on the cover. Of course, Bergey made the usual
mistakes. The Super was a brain, and thus why the
portholes?

Most of the stories were good, but two were out-
standing. They were Battle of the Brains and Rocket
Skin. Both more because of the new ideas they
brought forward than newness of plot.

Battle of the Brains was not really a new idea, but
it was handled well. The idea of one man being a
whole spaceship has vast possibilities. But it seemed
to me I came in late. Or anyway it seemed to be the
second part of a story. (Tho, of course, it wasn’t.)
Those fen that don’t like love with their stories must
have been happy with this one. It was cut down to
.00005. Do it a little more often, why don’t you.

The other story I liked was the shorty, Rocket Skin.

IN ' 0

RADIO

cs

Get in at the start of on® of tli®
GREATEST INDUSTRIAL EX-
PANSIONS in history. Radio is
a sound, established business*
Experts predict 500,000 jobs
in Television. Electronics opens
brand new fields in industry*
the professions, in the home.
Tens of thousands of techni-
cians needed at once.

SHOP METHOD HOME T R A I M i M 0

of this Big Established Resident Trade School

.gives you the knowledge, skill, mid experience to win a big pay job
or get into a profitable life-time business of your own. Learn by
doing. Get to know basic electronics, radio circuits and hook-ups by
working with the latest equipment and instruments, furnished with
your Course, from National’s own shops and laboratories. SEND
THE COUPON BELOW for a sample lesson. Prove to yourself how
easy and quick this exclusive speed-up e B - -

training method is. Make up your own r K ft t
mind about your future. No salesman will LESSON
call on you from National. Take the first
step to greater success NOW!

NATIONAL SCHOOlS

LOS ANGELES 37, CALIFORNIA

-■‘•■-At

National Schools, Dept. TG-9
4000 S. Figueroa Los Angeles 37, Calif.

Mail me sample lesson and book FREE. Pasteonapostcard

NAME AGE.

ADDRESS, , * . .

CITY. ZONE STATE, .

□ Check here if Veteran of World War II

ENTERTAINING, UP-TO-THE-MINUTE
PHOTO FEATURES ON EVERY PAGE!

•

NOW ON SALE— 10c AT ALL STANDS

START $1506 TO $2650 YEAR

Veterans Get »

Preference. Many r
examinations ^
expected soon 9 J*

Prepare ^

NOW!

Mail eoifpget
today.

107 8URE* * Address...*...-..,..,.

FRANKLIN INSTITUTE,

Dept. S94, ROCHESTER 4, N. Y.

Sirs: Rush without charge, (1) 32-page feooK
with list of U. S. Government jobs. (2) Tell
me how to qualify for one of these jobs.

/ Name

...Vet?..

This Ray Bradbury is good. Almost another Kuttner.
Now I for one don't think it would be possible to hold
onto the side of a space ship with a 10-ton magnetic,
but it was a darn good story.

The drama and horror of it were brought out very
well. The longing of the man Ellis to see and feel the
sun was, even tho he was supposed to be the villain,
pathetic. It makes one stop and think, we who have
everything, what it would be like to do without some
of the commonest of them.

The sun rising in the morning is common enough
thing to us, but what would we do if it didn’t? For
just one day? We on the West Coast know what it
is to sit in the sun and feel its warmth and relax in
it. The thought of a world without a Sun is — well
it is beyond my power to imagine.

The humorist, Pop, and the wise philosopher were
interesting in their ways too. Again I say it was one
of your best short stories. I am always -glad when you
have something like this. Interlink was one and so
was the outstanding You’ll see a Pink House. Too bad
there can’t be more like them, but you can’t help it
I suppose.

The rest of the stories were only average, except for
Jones’ Physique. Foooy, Hack, bung, tripe! How could
Carver do such a thing? Why it was like that old
master hack ray cummings. (No capitals) And after
the swell Pink House!

Inside pics were as bad as ever. I suggest you get
Ron Anger to do your work. Then at least the artist
would be a fan and could fight back.

Well, well, the Reader Speaks is surprisingly lacking
in old friends. Not one I knew. (If you print this
I’ll at least know one of the dopes — er, I mean
readers.) After reading Imditt (the wag!)’s letter I
decided one thing. You can’t refuse to print my letters
because of the spelling. I agree with you about the
phone numbers.

A rose (just one, not four) to you, old dear, for
your comeback at Rirnbaum. I will admit I have read
only one Lovecraft story, but I didn’t like it. I wouldn’t
say he was nuts for liking Lovey, but I don’t think he
should say Glisson is nuts either. Glisson may be new,
but he knows what he likes.

[Turn page]

SEE the 'VUoritl In pictures !

tainmenl*. on the

ear. Surprise and amaze your friends. Be in
v=_ --1 at parties, camps, public enter *

Iso, etc. 12 Complete Les

BY.® ■ ’

charges, or send SI. 00 and get JfiXXKA JSUMUS
all pOStpafa* (Canada, $1.25 money order only.) Nothing else to bay.
Positive money back guarantee. Ruth order tosUsu, —

WESTERN RANGER STCBiflS, Dept. 479. Hutchinson, scans.

INVENTORS

Learn now — without obligation — how to protect anil
sell your invention. Secure “Patent Guide” Free. Writs

CLARENCE A. O'BRIEN & HARVEY JACOBSON

Registered Patent Attorneys

68-J ADAMS BUILDING WASHINGTON, D. C«

f>OUBLE WEIGH? PAPER

What a bargain price to have your favorite p
•enlarged! Handsome, professional 'stydie-qu
•enlargement you'll cherish forever. Jus* send
snapshot or negative. Original returned with
enlargement. Immediate delivery.

J5END NO MONEY, Pay postman 55c or $1.25
plus postage — or save C.O.D. charge by send-
ing cash or check, and enlargements will be
mailed postpaid. Handsome Ivory and Cold frames 25c ta.
HERE'S A TRULY AMAZING BARGAIN. ORDER
Mellywood Film Studios, Dep

7021 Santa Manica Blvd., Hollywood 38, Calif. .

A MECHANICS • HOME STUDY

“ Step up your own skill with the facts and figures of your
trade. Audels Mechanics Guides contain Practical Inside
Trade Information in a handy form. Fully Illustrated ana
Easy to Understand. Highly Endorsed. Check the book;

• you want for 7 days’ Free Examination. Send No Money.
Nothing to pay postman. □ Refrigeration §4 • □ Radio
n Pumps & Hydraulics $4 • □ Machinist $4 • D Diesel |2
n Plumbers S6 •□Shipfltter$l •□WeldersSl • □Auto$4
□ Mathematics $2 • □ Electricity S4 • □ Carpenters S®

• □Marine $4 Blueprint $2 Sheet MetalSl. .

If satisfied you pay only SI a month until price is paid*

ftUPEl, Publishers, 49 W. 23 St., New York 10, N. V.

PATENT PROTECTION

Patent Office recommends, “an applicant Is advised, . . to employ £
competent registered Patent Attorney . . as the value of patents de-
pends largely upon the skillful preparation of the specifications and
claims.” Steps to be taken in obtaining patent protection available upon
request. Victor J. Evans & Co., 107-K Merlin Bldg., Washington 6, p- Q.

TEST THIS FREE FOR

DISTURBED SLEEP

Don’t disturb your sleep by getting up many times nightly due to
Irritation of Bladder or Urinary Tract. Learn now about PALMQ
TABLETS — and try them at our own risk. All you do is simply test
20 tablets FREE out of the full-size package we send you. If
palliative relief doesn’t surprise and delight you, return the extra
tablets and you pay nothing for the trial. No C.O.D. or postage,
SEND NO MONEY. Mail name and address today and we Will send
your PALMO TABLETS at once — postpaid!

H, d. POWERS CO., Dept. 9-595, Box 135, Battle Creek, Mich.

\ make MAGIC your HOBBY

AMAZE YOUR FRIENDS!

Yf / The new magazine “MAGIC IS FUN” teaches you
Vy how to do clever, amazing tricks' with coins, cards,
if handkerchiefs, ropes, etc. Also contains mind-reading
St effects, Sleight of Hand instructions, photos and fascia
Tk» nating life stories of famous magicians. Rush 25c for
FIRST issue or $1.50 subscription for 6 issues. FREE,
with order, large catalog of professional magical apparatus,

D. ROBBINS & CO., Dept. M-U, 152 \h. 42 St., N. Y. IS

I myself would rather read a good TWS story than
a Lovey. (If they are like the one I read) I don’t
like weird stories, and I don’t like his plots. But I
don’t expect to have many agree with me. One thing,
there wouldn’t be much to read if we all only liked
one writer. I like Kuttner, but I would get tired of
Kuttner and nothing else .—. 2962 Santa Ana St., South
Gate, Calif.

Methinks there lurks a sentimentalist be-
neath the Sneary space armor. All that
drivel about appreciating the wonders we
have? Who ever did appreciate what he had?
Surely not Reader Sneary. He doesn’t even
appreciate TWS.

And who says only West Coasters get sun-
burns? Ye Sarge hopes you blister your lily
white hide!

SWAN SONG

by Jim Kennedy

Dear Sarge: Today I sauntered into a bookstore to
look over the stock when suddenly a bright cover off
in one comer caught my eye. But I made the mistake
of calling out the name of the book as I dove for it
and I wound up in a scramble with a half dozen
other customers. I emerged from the pile victorious.

Dropping fifteen cents on the counter as I went out
I rushed home. But I had to run for my life. For I
hadn’t gone more than two blocks when there were
about twenty people after me. But I made it home
safely and bolted the door. Ignoring the clamoring
crowd outside, I set back to read the book.

Just then I thought I had gotten the wrong book.
No! there was the name, THRILLING WONDER
STORIES. But where was the Bern? Where was the
Hero to fight the Bern? All there was was a broken
down machine trying to get fresh with a girl.

Then I saw Bergey’s name on the cover. There was
only one conclusion. Bergey must have been blind-
folded at the time because it was one of his best
covers. But break the news to him gently or he’s
liable to have a relapse.

Looking inside I almost fainted. Not the usual
three or four stories to a book. Not five, not six, but
eight stories. How did this get by the censor?

THE BATTLE OF THE BRAINS was a little com-
plicated in spots, but none the less a good story. Too

Amazing Thrills on a
TWIN UNIVERSE

The prayers of the most worthy people often fail. Why?
The unworthy often have the greatest health, success,
riches and happiness. The best, smartest, and most in-
dustrious people often have only pain, poverty and sor-
row. Why? Thirty years ago, in Forbidden Tibet, behind
the highest mountains in the world, a young Englishman
found the answers to these questions. His eyes were
opened by the strangest my stic he met during his twenty-
one years of travels in the Far East. Sick then, he re-
gained health. Poorthen, he acquired wealth and world-
wide professional honors. He wants to tell the whole world
what he learned, and offers to send a 9,000-word treatise,
FREE, to everyone who asks promptly. It is a first step
to the POWER that KNOWLEDGE gives. There is
no obligation. Write for YOUR FREE COPY today.!
INSTITUTE of MENTALPHYSICS, Dept. X-263
*13 South Hobart Blvd., ' Los Angeles 4, Calif.

THE DARK
WORLD

By HENRY
KUTTNER

Complete novel featured
in the Summer issue of

STARTLING

STORIES

NOW ON SALE— 15c EVERYWHERE!

108

bad your artist doesn’t think so. The illustrations
were awful. But it rates about nine gallons of Xeno.
Stop drooling, Sargei They’re for the author, not you.

INDESTRUCTIBLE MAN was excellent. But that is
not news. I’ve learned that if it is written by Edmond
Hamilton there is no doubt that it is good. Twelve
gallons of Xeno for this.

UNDERMOST wasn’t very good. Only two gallons
of Xeno for this. It’s about time I started getting
technical, so! In Undermost on page 56, on the first
line of the tenth paragraph, either the author or you
made a mistake. Who is Westwood? Do you mean
Westcott? Sarge, quit pulling your hair and scream-
ing like that.

FIND THE SCULPTOR was fair although it could
be better. Five gallons for this.

ROCKET PANTS was pretty good. For once we
have the hero coming through on just skill alone with-
out any of these fancy instruments coming along and
getting him out of a jam in time. Also, of all the
illustrations, the one on page 67 was the best Give
this eight gallons.

JONES’ PHYSIQUE and ROCKET SKIN each were
worth five gallons.

LIKE DUPS was lousy. Only 1/2 gallon for this one.
Even the illustration was bad.

After I finished the book I quietly fainted. This
couldn’t be possible. A Thrilling Wonder that was
worth talking about. There were a few poor stories.
But there were a lot of good ones. All I got to say is,
keep up the good work.

By the way, Sarge! Is this the sixth time I’ve written
to you or the seventh. I’ve lost track. What’s the use,
you never publish any of my letters. But just in case
this gets published, I’ll send out my usual S.O.S.
signal.

WANTED: Back issues of Startling Stories, Thrilling
Wonder Stories and Captain Future: STARTLING

Stories. . . . All issues of the years 1937, 1938, 1939, and
1940. All issues of 1941 except Nov. All of 1942 except
Nov. All of 1943 except Mar. and June.

THRILLING WONDER stories: All 1937 except Oct.
All of 1938 except Apr. All of 1939. All of 1940 except
June, Sept, and Dee. All of 1941. All of 1942 except
Oct. and Dec. Also June 1943. .

[ Turn page ]

Learn this
Profitable
Profession

IN 90 DAYS
AT HOME
MONEY- MAKING CAREER OPEN
t® MEN and WOMEN, 18 to 50

Hundreds of men and women between 19 and 50 make $10 tS
$20 in a single day giving Scientific Swedish Massage and
Hydro-Therapy treatments. There is big demand from doc-
tors, hospitals, sanatoriuxns and clubs. Graduates earn large?
full time incomes from these or in private practice in their own
offices. Others make good money from home treatments giver*
in spare time. Learn this interesting, money-malnng profession
in your own home, through our home study
course. Same instructors as in our nationally
known resident school. You can win independ-
ence and prepare for future security by qualify-
ing for our Diploma. Course can be completed
in 8 to 4 months. Many earn while they learn.
Begin your training at once.

Anatomy Charts & Booklet FREE

Enroll now and we will include, at no extra cosfcr.
many needed supplies. Fit yourself to help meet
growing demand for Scientific Swedish Massage.
Send the coupon at once for complete details*
Anatomy Charts and 32-page illustrated Booklet.
FREE, postpaid.

THE COLLEGE OF SWEDISH MASSAGE

Dept. 663-L, 100 East GhioSt., Chicago If, Illinois

Please send me FREE and postpaid. Anatomy Charts, 32-paga

Booklet and complete details on Home Training.

- ,-^-. 1 — - 7

Address...«.« re « w .„ re ««. M * TO « M ^... w « s „,„

City...

..State...

Every Story True and Inspiring!

Recommended by Parents and Teachers

Now On Sale — 10c At All Stands!

Mi

Free for Asthma
During Summer

It you suffer with those terrible attacks of Asthma when
it is hot and sultry; if heat, dust and general muggtness
make you wheeze and choke as if each gasp for breath was
the very last ; if restful sleep is impossible because of the
struggle to breathe ; if you feel the disease is slowly wearing
your life away, don’t fail to send at once to the Frontier
Asthma Co. for a free trial of a remarkable method. No
matter where you live or whether you have any faith in any
remedy under the Sun, send for this free trial. If you have
suffered for a life-time and tried everything you could lean*
of without relief ; even if you are utterly discouraged, do not
abandon hope but send today for this free trial. It will*
cost you nothing. Address j

Frontier Asthma Co, $24-T Frontier Bld&ii

462 Niagara Street By f fate h N» fj

fiCT EYE- GLAS SES by MAIL NEW

■Iflfc I mmmmmlmvmmmKmm f* 7W' — — ..J

316-DA Y TRIAL Offer

FIT— NEWEST STYLES

Send for FREE Scientific Sight Test Chart and Catalog, Write today, j

U. S. EYE-GLASSES CO . Dept?

PIPE A /#$***&

MAKE $25- $35 A WEEK

You can leam practical nursing at home
in spare time. Course endorsed by phy-
sicians. Thousands of graduates. &UH
yr. One graduate has charge of 10-be<J
hospital. Another saved $400 while
learning. Equipment included. Men*

~ women IS to 60. High School nog

feaUMm Easy tuition payments. Trial plan. Write today*

„ t CHICAGO SCHOOL OF NURSING
Dept 42& 160 East Ohio Street, Chicago SI, III.

Please send free booklet and 16 sample lesson
IVOTnuj,.*,,,,,,,,,.,,.,,,

City.,,

.Stale,

HOME-STUDY

BR1NCS BICCER PAY

Don't be caught napping when Opportunity knocks,.
Prepare for advancement and more money by train-
ing now for the job ahead. Free 48-Page Books Tell
How. Write for the book on the business field you like
— or mail us this ad with your name and address in
the margin. Now , please.

□Higher Accountancy OBusiness Management
□Traffic Management ^Business Corres.

□Law — Degree of LL.B. □ Salesmanship
□Commercial Law □ Modern Foremanship

□Industrial Management! DExpert Bookkeeping
DStenotypy . □ C. P. A. Coaching

LASALLE EXTENSION UNIVERSITY

A Correspondence Institution
Dept. 9329-R 417 So. Dearborn St, Chicago S

LEG SUFFERERS

Why continue to suffer without attempt-
ing to do something? Write today for New
Booklet— “THE LIEPE METHODS FOR
HOME USE.” It tells about Varicose
Ulcers and Open Leg Sores. Liepe Methods
used while you walk. More than 40 years of
success. Praised and en-
dorsed by multitudes.

FREE

LIEPE METHODS. 328«N:creeR Bay Ave.,

Dept. 54-J, Milwaukee, Wisconsin I

BOOKLET

THE SPEAKER’S FRIEND

.48 Pages

35c,

Per Copy
Post Paid

"‘TtiVIE CHASERS".- Acoll«»ie»

in pocket cite of humor and pathos in proto
and verso by Susan Bond. This litti. book ol
more. than 50 subjects also is mighty lino
reading to fiil that waiting timo in homo,
office of on the train.

CAPTAIN FUTURE: The Seven Space Stone, Cap-
tain Future’s Challenge, Star Trail To Glory, Planets
In Peril, The Star of Dread, The Face Of The Deepy
Quest Beyond The Stars, Outlaws Of The Moon,
Days of Creation, The Comet Kings, Magic Moo*.
Worlds To Come, Magician Of Mars, and Lost World
Of Time.

By the way, Sarge! I thought in the March issue
of Startling Stories that you said that both Startling
Stories and Thrilling Wonder Stories were coming
out bi-monthly. That’s why I was expecting the
March issue of T.W.S. instead of the Spring Issue.

And another thing, Sarge . . . Well, whatcha know!
The Sarge has fainted! — Summit City, California.

SS and TWS are bi-monthly. The lapse in
labeling them was due to a shift in the publi-
cation date which has thus been deftly
jumped in true space-warp style. Better lay
off the Xeno, bub. It can become a habit, you
know. And a demerit for catching the West-
cott-Westwood error on page 56. Westwood
is the home of Author Manly Wade Wellman
and Fanhack Gerry de la Ree. So don’t take
us to task too bitterly for getting confused.

So, the new Sarge is now officially born.
Give us a line on how you like and/ or dislike
him. He’s still ready with plenty of harpoons
for his critics. See you next time we hit the
stands, and keep those letters coming. Please
address all communications to Sergeant Sat-
urn, c/o THRILLING WONDER STORIES,
10 East 40th Street, New York 16, N. Y.
Thank you!

—SERGEANT SATURN.

BOND FEATURES, publisher*

9. a BOX 149. NEWARK I. N. X O.pt, A

ASTHMA... O \
HAY FEVER •

IF YOU SUFFER from the discomforts of non-cardiac ASTHMA <
or HAY FEVER then find out about, the wonderful relief you ^
can get from ASTHENE now, a scientific tablet formula which
for nearly a score of years has given joyful relief to thousands.
Contains rich concentration of Vitamin C and other valuable]
ingredients. Send $2.00 TODAY for 10 day trial as a Special <
Introductory Offer with MONEY BACK GUARANTEE. OR<
Send No Money — just mail a postcard and we will forwards
it C.O.D. i

UNIVERSAL MEDICAL COMPANY, Dept. TG-3 <
1400 S# Pulaski RcL, Chicago 23, Illinois <

Learn Health Facts

FREE BOOK on Ailments

BECTRL-jCOLQHIC

MIMENTS

40-page FREE BOOK — ■ tells facts about Colon,
Troubles, Constipation, Stomach Conditions, Rectal
Abscesses and Ulcers. Thornton 8s Minor Clinic,
1 Suite 956, 926 McGee, Kansas City, Mo.

Complete HOME-STUDY

COURSES and self - instruc-
tion textbooks, slightly used.
Rented, sold, exchanged. All
subjects. 100% satisfaction.
_ Cash paid for used courses.
■ Fall details & 100-page illus-

— — — — — — — - i l ■ i.-nA fcrated bargain catalog

Write Neisow Co, ,1139 S. Wabash Av., Dept. 2-06, Chicago 5, ill.

flext Jj

HEADLINERS!

r&6lie J

110

I AM EDEN

A Complete Fantastic Novel

By HENRY KUTTNER

•

PHALID S FATE

An Amazing Novelet

By JACK VANCE

•

THE END

An Astonishing Novelet

By MURRAY LEINSTER
and Many Others

THE STORY

BEHIND

THE STORY

M ESSRS. John Russell Fearn, Murray
Leinster and Keith Hammond have
been obliging enough to delve into the origins
of THE MULTILLIONTH CHANCE,
POCKET UNIVERSES and CALL HIM

DEMON respectively and come forward with
notes thereon to Sergeant Saturn.

Sinee the first two of these stories are on
the pseudo-scientific side — although Mr.
Fearn’s contains definite fantasy connotations
—while Mr. Hammond’s is horror fantasy
pure and far from simple, they present an
unusually interesting variety of ideas.

But let’s let the authors themselves do the

ticoti io co„ 663 N, Wells Sf., Chicago 10. Dept j.g
Gentlemen; Send Free Sample and Details to;

Nntn*

Address

City

State

Easy to Plate CHROMIUM

GOLD, SILVER, NICKEL* COPPER
; . . For Pleasure and Profit I

I£ you Have a workshop — at home or in busi®
ness— you need this new Warner Electro-
plater. At the stroke of an electrified brush,
you can electroplate models and projects"—
you can replate worn articles, faucets, tools,'
fixtures, silverware, etc, with a durable,
sparkling coat of metal . . . Gold, Silver,,
Chromium, Nickel, Copper or Cadmium.
Method is easy, simple, quick. Everything
furnished— equipment complete, ready for
use. By doing a bit of work for others, your ma~ j
chine can i>ay for itself within a week. So
make your shop complete by getting a
Warner Electroplater right away, v Send
today for FREE SAMPLE and illustrated
literature. ACT AT ONCEf Mail Coupon*.
WARNER ELECTRIC CO., Dept. J.«
*63 N* Weils Sf., Chicago 10.- Illinois

High School Course

explaining. First, Mr. Fearn:

It was the thought of how many things do hap-
pen by chance that led me to piece together the
details of this novelet. Remember how Huxley
said that an army of monkeys strumming on
typewriters would be bound one day, by chance,
to write a Shakespear sonnet? Remember how
Eddington has said — and others too — that the
water in a kettle on the fire might by some
improbable chance freeze instead of boil?

Well, these two hypotheses started me off. I
had to have something more interesting than a
kettle of water, so I hurried along to the day
when atom-smashing and metal-transmutation
will be a mere routine affair. Out of this I
produced, with I hope something of the unex-
pectedness of the good magician, a most de-
lectable blonde.

I fancied this ought to make for interest, and
I realized too that I had a fine chance for a
humorous development — for a blonde in a coldly
scientific physical laboratory is by no means
usual.

But I had to stick to my original plot outline,
so the humor was put on one side for the de-
velopment of the age-old theory on how life
came to Earth, why Mars has become more arid
than a dehydrated egg, why Venus has no moon,
and so on.

Naturally it is purely a speculation— and show
me the science-fiction yam which is not — but
it was a decided joy to write and to figure out,

[Turn page]

111

at Home

rfflany Finish in 2 Year*’

I Go as rapiaiy as your time ana abilities permit. Couraa
eijulvalent to resident school worS — prepares for college
entrance exams. Standard H.S. texts supplied. Diplomas

CrAdft fnr FT S .nMaat. ..... a&TJo. J# A*.

!

Credit for H. S. subjects already completed. Single subjects if da®
sired. High school education is very important for advancement ua

business and .industry and socially. Don’t be handicapped all yotse
hfe.^Be a High School graduate. Start your training now. Wtem
Bulletin on request. Wo obligation.

American School* Dept. H*658* Drexeia£58t!t,Cfiicago3?

Banish the craving for tobacco as
thousands have with Tobacco
Redeemer. Write for Ires fcooidee
telling of injurious effect of tobacco
and of a treatment which has reliev-
ed many men. Caution;

Use only as directed. FREE
30 Years in Business Rjimr
THE NEWELL COMPANY J - gg s BJ
153 Ciaytsn,Sta.,St.U)uis5,Ma.

Dependable; new, handsome
Watch, Accurate timekeeper!
Modernistically styled. Finer
quality; Precision built by
Swiss craftsmen. Beautifully
designed chrome case, with
engraved back. Written
Guarantee with every watch? !

SEND NO MONEY
Wear Ai®Br Risk!

Satisfaction Guaranteed OS ■
Money Back. Pay postman .
C.O.D. only $8.50 plus postage
and 10% Federal tax. YoFU
be delighted!

IsiefQgfiQaai Diamond €&> 2435 Indiana Are; K Degf.13S7.€S&*g0 WMh

DRAWforMONEY

Be An ARTISTS

PREPARE TODAY FOR THE
FUTURE THAT LIES AHEAD
Trained Artists Are Capable of
Earning $40, $60, $75 A WEEK
Use your spare time te prepare tor a profit-
able Art Career! Start training at home, now I

It’s pleasant and interesting: to study Art tho
W. S. A. way. COMMERCIAL ART, DESIGNING*
CARTOONING— all in one complete course. No
previous Art experience necessary— we teach
you step-by-step by our practical home study
method well-known since 1914. Write today
for information ir> FREE BOOK, “ART FOR
PLEASURE AND PROFIT”— tells all about our
course, material furnished, instruction service
and commercial opportunities for you in art.
STATE AGE.

Approved ior training under “G.l. Bill *

WASHINGTON SCHOOL OF ART

Studio669C,ln.5-I5thSt.,«.W..Wasll.5,P.C.

PI

1

ICTURI
IING $1.1

makes False Teeth TIGHT

Makes loose dental plates fit
snugly and comfortably.

LASTS for MONTHS!

Simply squeeze on dental plate and put
ft in your mouth. Hardens and becomes
part of plate. Money-back guarantee.
CBEE Generous package of Dental Plate
■KtE Cleanser with each order. Send
*1.00 or mailed parcel post collect.

Fit-Rite Co,, 1573 Milwaukee Ave.
Dez>t« 9*82. Chicane. III.

If Ruptured
Try This Out

Modem Protection Provides Great Comfort and
Holding Security

Without Tortuous Truss Wearing

An "eye-opening” revelation in sensible and comfortable re-
ducible rupture protection may be yours for the asking, without
cost or obligation. Simply send name and address to William S.
Rice, Inc., Dept. 1-B, Adams, N. Y., and full details of the new
and different Rice Method will be sent you Free. Without hard
flesh-gouging pads or tormenting pressure, here's a Support that
has brought joy and comfort to thousands — by releasing them
from Trusses with springs and straps that bind and cut. Designed
to securely hold a rupture up and in where it belongs and yet
give freedom of body and genuine comfort. For full information
’—write feday t

albeit with a headache or two, how much chance
can rule our lives and to a great extent pre-
destine our future.

The wiseacres say — -“Leave nothing to chance!”
If only they knew it, chance is the single thing
that is certain!

Good hunting, fellow scribes and readers! Per-
haps by some multillionth chance somebody will
like the yarn.

Modest chap, this Fearn. Rest assured, a
number of people have already expressed
liking for the story — hence its appearance in
print.

Taking fewer chances on chance and with
more regard to the scientific scene, Mr. Lein-
ster approached his novelet from a very dif-
ferent jumping-off place. Says he:

“Pocket Universes ” came out of an argument
I had with myself. Under certain circumstances,
space is warped. Some of it apparently ceases
to be. If you make a gigantic square, exactly
accurate, with the sun in the middle, a line
through the sun to the two parallel lines at right
angles to it will be shorter than a line at the
same angle between those two parallel lines a
few million miles out. It works out that things
which are equal to the same thing aren’t always
equal to each other.

For no particular reason that bothered me,
and I started to play with the idea of space-
warps on a small scale and the effects they’d
produce. The science part of “Pocket Universes ”
came out of that.

For the story itself, any number of inven-
tions have been made and lost. In Nero’s time an
artisan showed the emperor a crystal goblet
which he dashed to the ground, dented, ham-
mered into shape again with a hammer, and
presented to the emperor.

Nero had him killed to preserve the value of
his collection of crystal. Now, we have transpar-
ent plastics now, but one wonders. . . . And in
John Evelyn’s diary, he tells that in 1660, in
Rome, he was shown a ring, from the stone of
which a man lighted his pipe as often as he
pleased. The man offered the secret for ten
ducats, Evelyn thought it too high, later recon-
sidered and couldn’t find the man again.

Evelyn wasn’t a liar. They had neither matches
nor their equivalents at that time, and it wasn’t
a flint device. We’ve got pocket-lighters now —
but none as small as the stone in a ring — yet
one wonders. . . . And how many other discover-
ies have been made and simply forgotten? You
guess. I guess a lot.

There you have the elements of the yarn.

Apparently Mr. Hammond had not yet
heard that the Sarge has gone on the wagon
— hence the highly irreverent tone of his mis-
sive which follows. Furthermore, your corre-
spondent has read HELEN’S BABIES, which
he has among the books in his library, along
with THE CASTING AWAY OF MRS.
LECKS AND MRS. ALESHINE.

On the whole, Mr. Hammond’s attempt to
explain the origins of his magnificent fantasy
is about as finite as any explanation of such
112

a story can be — in other words, it doesn’t ex-
plain a thing. But it has its moments for all
that, as follows:

One evening I was showing Sergeant Saturn
the right way to mix a Xeno cocktail — with
papaya juice and limes, not kerosene and lemons
— and we got to talking about science-fiction.
He didn’t want to. He kept muttering curses
at people who write him letters without know-
ing the difference between a helical Henderson
gravity drive fuse and a beam-powered kly-
stron — but, anyway, I told him he couldn’t have
any more Xeno unless he shut up and let me
talk,

“Well,” he said, reaching for the Xeno, “Fll
tell you one thing, Hamilton — ”

“Look,” I said, “I’m not Ed Hamilton. Do I
look like Ed? I’m Hammond, remember.”

But he only shuddered and gulped Xeno.

“I don’t care who you are,” he growled, jog-
gling his anti-gravity belt and floating up to the
ceiling. “Why are you only two feet high?”

I looked up at him.

“That’s perspective,” I said. “Turn off that
belt of yours and come down. I wish you would-
n’t wear full space armor when you’re on
Earth.”

“You’re two feet high.” he said. “Just about
the size of a small child. Hey, why don’t some-
body write a story about a small child?”

“Like Helen’s Babies?” I said. But he hadn’t
read it.

“No, a science-fiction yarn,” the Sergeant said,
struck by an inspiration. “This kid’s a space
pirate — see? And he’s in love with the beautiful
daughter of the governor of Mars.”

“Hand me down the Xeno,” I said. “And just
how old is this child hero supposed to be?”
“Oh, ten or twelve . . . hm-m. I see your
point, Hammond. It wouldn’t be moral to have a
kid that age make a living at piracy, would it?”
“A lot you know about morals, you hi-jack-
ing space-rat,” I said, and he lapsed into invec-
tive, calling me a knob-headed Neptunian species
of virulent dandruff, probably because he’d acci-
dentally dropped the Xeno.

“Why do you come up with these terrible
ideas?” he demanded. “You ought to know by
now that you can’t write a science-fiction story
about a small child.”

“It was your idea.”

“It wasn’t, you draggle-toothed, buck-headed
offspring of a Saturnian.”

“Shaddup,” I said, which is Martian for Merry
Christmas. He glowered.

“You put a small child up against a Mercutian
fire -hydra and who do you think would win?”
“You got something there,” I said. “Did you
ever consider that the immature colloid mechan-
ism of homo sapiens’ brain is totally alien to the
adult.”

He wished me Merry Christmas in Martian
and, when I wasn’t looking, chained me to my
typewriter. After that, he went off with the
Xeno, singing “Blow the Man Down,” and left
me to write the story.

I wasn’t going to mention this, hut the Sergeant
has been busted down so often he puts his
stripes on with safety pins. I don’t care if he is
a galactic non-com, he can’t talk that way to
me and get away with it. As you were.

HOSPITALIZATION BILLS

Paid up to’475 a year

ACCIDENT - SICKNESS

tP 00 A

At a Cost $JS

r ^ I - ,

of Only

No medical
examinations required . . .

At a premium of only $5.00 a year, you can now protect
yourself against the worry of hospital bills in case of
sickness or accident. Full benefits available regardless
Of your occupation,

PROTECT YOURSELF BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE

Accidents happen and sickness comes when you least
expect them. Make sure you're protected. Regardless
of what other hospitalization policies you may have,
your benefits with a Universal Hospitalization Policy
are not reduced.

Mail This Coupon Today

Universal Insurance Service, Inc.

42 F Merchants Row, Rutland, Vermont

Please send me, without obligation, fui! inform-
ation about your low cost Hospitalization insurance.

Name™

Address™

City™

.State™.

Accountant

Executive Accountants and 0. P. A.’s earn 82,000 to 210,000 a Tear.
Thousands of firms need them. About 20,000 Certified Public Account*-
ants In the U. S. We train yon thoroly at home in spare time foe
C. F. A. examinations or executive accounting positions. Previous az-

K stance unnecessary. Personal training: under supervision of stag a£
P, A.'e, Including members of the American Institute of Account*
ante. Write for free book, “Accountancy, the Profession That Pays."

LASALLE Extension University, 417 So. Dearborn St,
A Correspondence Institution Dept. 9329-H Chicago 5, III.

DETECTIVES

TRAINING— SECRET INVESTIGATIONS— FINGER PRINTS
Easy Method— Short Time. Home— Travel— Secret Code-Booklet
FREE — WRITE, INTERNATIONAL DETECTIVE SYSTEM, 1701-T
Monroe St., N. E., Washington, D. C. 18,

OUTDOOR! 'JOBS

MEN — Study for work in forests, parka and game refuges. Detail
free. Write, Deimar Institute, M-4, Tabor Bldg., Denver, Colo.

Tout Abilities
ToThe Opportunities

You have unused talents
and mental powers. Learn to
develop those faculties of mind
which today's world of business
demands. Start life anew' — with-
out changing your affairs. Write
the Rosicrucians for Jree Sealed
tdiing how you may receive age-old
teachings to achieve personal power.
Address: Scrihe E.K.T.
he BOSICBUC1ANS, (An»orc)« San Jo»«, Calif.

113

wr/il BVS//VFSS/

(Offers Big Money — Independence

%f you are mechanically inclined— can hold and use tools it will
pay you to learn electrical appliance repairing. Operate from your
garage, basement, etc. Work as many hours as you wish— the
appliance repairman is his own boss. On many types of repairs it
Is usual tot a repairman to charge on the basis of $5.00 to $6,00
®n hour!

No Previous Experience Needed

Profusely illustrated our new course shows you in simple, easy to
understand language plus drawings and photographs, how to make
each repair on refrigerators, vacuum cleaners, washing machines,
motors, fans, irons, etc., etc. Explains and gives you a working
knowledge of electricity, welding, nickel plating, etc. Shows you
bow to build the power tools you need and how to solicit and keep
business coming to you. Not a theory course but an honest to
goodness practical course written by and used by repairmen the
country over. Price of course is so low that the savings on your
own household appliances will pay for it. Act now! Send today for
FREE literature, Christy Supply Co>, 2835 N. Central Ave., Dept,
D-I8G4, Chicago 34, Illinois.

Store Route Plan

PAYSBIG MONEY

NSslWii

SELL COUNTER CARD PRODUCTS

Build a good-paying business of your owni
Call on dealers of all kinds; show nationally-
advertised Aspirin, Vitamins, Cosmetics and
200 other necessities: Big 60 and 10c retail
, packages, high quality: Attractive counter
: displays seUgoods fast. Free book gives aroaz*

World's Products 8 Co. , Copt. 73-P, Spencer, Ind.

aiiiig

Ph BAwKSSOl Stun

a Mw " ■

HU* W AMI

raWT Dept

STUDY AT HOME for PERSONAE SUCCESS
d LARGER EARNINGS. 37 years expert in-
. JUction — over 108,000 students enrolled. LL.R.
Degree awarded. All texts furnished. Easy pay-
ments. Send for FREE BOOK.

AMERICAN EXTENSION SCHOOL OF LAW
Dept. 69°T, 646 N. Michigan Ave., Chioago H. HI.

National Baking School an- __
flounces their home study course in commer.
cial baking. Baking is now one of America's
high Industries in wages. Not a seasonable
business, but year-’round good field for trained and
experienced men. If you have the desire and apti-
tude, send for FREE Booklet, “Opportunities in
Commercial Baking.”

. NATIONAL BAKING SCHQfiL
.1315 S. Michigan Ave. : Dept. 1806 J Chicago 5, III*

VETS I

HONORABLE

DISCHARGE RING 5

HERE'S A VALUE 1 Handsome, hefty Genuine
Sterling Silver HONORABLE DISCHARGE RING,
yellow gold finish, for only $1.98 pins tax. Handsome
Enrolled mounting. OFFICIAL DISCHARGE EM-
BLEM. A beautiful ring you’ll wear for life.

6 (Tun Ufl unugrv Mail your name, address.
uktlU IfU InUla C. I andringsizetoday.Your
Genuine Sterling Gold Finish Discharge Ring will he
sent to you AT ONCE. Pay your postman only $1.98
plus tax and postage. Wear the ring 10 days, andllf
not delighted, return It and your money will be re-
funded at once. Yes. your satisfaction guaranteed 1
ORDER TODAY. Send strip of paper for size.

CHARLES STEWART, 6S6 Walnut St.

Dept. C-*OS C1NCINNAT8 2, OHIO.

ANALYZE HANDWRITING

.Qualify for Certified Grapho-Analysfc Degree, New unerowded, ;
fascinating field of service. Gratifying earnings reported by l
graduates in Employment, Credit, Social Service, Police and j
Judicial, and Entertainment fields. Others have d eveloped ]
profitable private practice, full or spare
time, as Personal Problem and Vocational
Counselors. Send for 3000 word test lesson
and Grapho -Analyst FREE.

ADDRESS A.

rs have developed 1

FREE!

NOEL, MO.

BE A DETECTIVE

WORK HOME or TRAVEL. Experience unnecessary,

DETECTIVE Particulars FREE. Write to

GEO. R. H. WAGNER, 125 W. 86th St., N. Y.

/

STAMMER?

This new 128-page book, “Stammering,
Its Cause and Correction,” describes the
Bogue Unit Method for scientific
correction of stammering and
stuttering — - successful for 45 ,
years. Free — no obligation.

Beniamin N. Bogue, Depf. 4270, Circle
Tower, Indianapolis 4, Ind.

ribes the

c my,

U

AD IS WORTH/* | 0o

A mazing NEW OFFER gives you
2 enlargements ef your favorite photo

To introduce you to the superb quality of ourworkmanship.that has gained
S# us millions of regular customers, we will make you a free gift of two 5x7
enlargements which regularly sell for 50c each. Just send us any snapshot,
photo or negative. Be sure to include color of hair, eyes and clothing —
and get our bargain offer for having these enlargements beautifully
hand colored in oil and placed in your choice of handsome frames.
Please enclose IOC each for handling and mailing. Originals returned
with FREE prints worth $1. Act AT ONCE. Limit 2 to a customer.

^HOLLYWOOD FILM STUDIOS * W.119 1021 Santa Monica DM.. Hollywood 38. Calif.

II

A Sensational Offer to New Members

of the Dollar Book Club ■

WHEN TOO /
JOIN THE

DOLLAR BOOK CLUB

The New Best-Seller
that Combines the
Warmth and Human-
ity of “A Tree Grows
jn Brooklyn” with the
Outspoken Truth of
‘‘Kings Row”

HE KNEW THE WHOLE
TOWN'S SECRETS

—yet hid a burning secret of his own!

Doctor Dan Field knew everything that went
on in Willowspring — the scandals and the love
affairs, the heartbreaks and hidden tragedies.
Yet no one knew that in Dan’s lonely house
— in the bedroom where no woman had ever
slept — he kept a white bride’s bed, reserved
for the wife of another man!

This great prize-winning novel combines an
extraordinary love story with a lusty, living
picture of a small town. Awarded both the
publisher’s $20,000 prize and the M-G-M
$125,000 novel award, it is the one book of
the year you will not want to miss. And it
can be yours for only a 3c stamp when you
join the Dollar Book Club!

DOLLAR BOOK CLUB MEMBERSHIP IS FREE

The DOLLAR BOOK CLUB is the only club that brings. you newly printed books
by outstanding authors, for only $1.00 each. You save 50 to 75 per cent from
the established retail price. Every selection is a handsome, full-sized library
edition printed exclusively for members. You do not have to accept a book every
month; only the purchase of six selections a year is necessary.

The Economical, Systematic Way to Build a Good Library
Dollar Book Club selections are from the best modern books — the outstanding
fiction and non-fiction by famous authors. Such outstanding best sellers as
A LION IS IN THE STREETS, CHINA TO ME, THE RIVER ROAD and
DRAGONWYCK were all received by members at $1.00 each while the public
was paying from $2.50 to $3.00 for the publisher’s edition, at retail. 600,000
discriminating readers are enthusiastic supporters of the Dollar Book Club,
enabling the Club to offer values unequaled by any other method of book buying.

Choose Your First Selection from These Best Sellers
Upon receipt of the attached coupon you will be sent a FREE eopy of "BEFORE
THE SUN GOES DOWN”. You will also receive as your first selection for
$1.00 your choice of any of these three great best sellers:

• Lusty Wind for Carolina by Inglis Fletcher. The swashbuckling new
novel of pirates and passion in Colonial days.

• The Foxes of Harrow by Frank Yerby. The 600,000-copy best-seller of
a gambler who founded a Creole plantation dynasty.

“Before the Sun Goes Down” yours for 3c stamp!
DOUBLEDAY ONE DOLLAR BOOK CLUB
Dept. 9T.G., Garden City, N. Y.

Please enroll me free as a Dollar Book Club Subscriber
and send me at once "Before the Sun Goes Down" for
the enclosed 3c stamp. Also send me as my first selection
for $1.00 the books I have checked below:

□ The Strange Woman □ Lusty Wind for Carolina
□ The Foxes of Harrow

With these books will come my first issue of the free
descriptive folder called "The Bulletin” telling about the
two new forthcoming one-dollar bargain book selections
and several additional bargains which are offered at
$1.00* each to members only. I am to have the privilege
of notifying you in advance if I do not wish either of
the following months’ selections and whether or not I
wish to purchase any of the other bargains at the Special
Club price of $1.00 each. The purchase of books is
entirely voluntary on my part. I do not have to accept
a book every month— only six during the year to fulfill
my membership requirement. I pay nothing except $1.00
for each selection received plus a few cents handling
and shipping cost.

• The Strange Woman by Ben Ames Williams. The unforgettable story
of "A Maine Cleopatra” by the author of “Leave Her to Heaven.”

Mr.
Mrs.
Miss .

Every other month you will receive 'the free descriptive folder called The Bulletin,
which is sent exclusively to members of the Club. The Bulletin describes the
next two selections and renews ten or more additional books (in the original
publishers’ editions selling at retail for $2.50 or more) available to members
at only $1.00 each. If you do not wish to purchase either or both selections
for $1.00 each, you may notify the Club and the books will not be sent you.
You may request an alternate selection if desired.

(Please Print)

St. and No

City &

Zone No State.

If under 21,

Occupation Age, please.

DOUBLEDAY ONE DOLLAR BOOK CLUB, Garden City, New York

*Same Price in Canada: 105 Bond St., Toronto 2, Canada

2 Outdoors, at night, turn on your "Eveready” flash-
light! Shine it directly at the dog’s eyes, to blind
and perhaps bewilder him. He may leap at the light,
however; so don’t hold it in front of you. Hold it at
arm’s length to the side. Most important . . .

The fact that 999 dogs out of a thousand are
■ friendly, safe and lovable doesn’t alter the fact that
occasionally— through mistreatment, neglect or disease—
a dog may turn vicious. Such animals are dangerous.
Especially at night ! If cornered —

3 Keep still. Don’t move. Don’t run — it’s instinctive
with most animals to attack anything that runs away
or moves aggressively. If the dog refrains from attack-
ing for a few seconds, you have probably won — he is
apt to growl at the light, then slink off, outbluffed.

.

How to Outbluff a

VICIOUS DOG

at night!

as recommended by
Lh Camdr, Willy Nicker,
Wheeling, III. — noted dog
framer and judge of dog
$how$***and wartime head
of u. S. Coat t Guard War

J

Far bright light* white light* e§ectwe light — Insist on
"Eveready" batteries* For they have no equals— that's why
they're the iargestoettieg flashlight batteries ta the world*
Yet their extra light* extra lift* cost you eethmg extra!

NATIONAL CARflON COMPANY* INC*

50 1 ast 42M Stre et* N ew York 17* N* Y,
um ef raioit cerem fffH «at cermeam

The registered

“Mm#” distift*
gyishes protaett of
N&tiws&l Clyteoft

TRADE-MARK